Fall In Agust

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a/n: almost there, we are almost getting a new chapter!!

You were driving home together when it happened. Yoongi was parking the car, had put it in reverse, looking out the rear window with his arm slung around the back of your seat while backing into the open spot. You’d told him something about - what even was it...? Some random post you’d seen online about sourdough. And he didn’t listen because he was busy concentrating on parking. He’d asked you to come again once he turned off the car and you said something along the lines of it’s alright, you never listen to me anyway. 

It was supposed to be a joke. Obviously! You’d even grinned while saying it but had turned your head away from him to look out the window in a dramatic display of feigned offense. Yoongi didn’t catch the sarcasm. And he huffed. Then shook his head and got out of the car without another word. That’s when you started to get pissed. He really thought you were that much of a bitch, huh? Okay then. 

Neither of you were in the mood to address it, busy seething with a subtle broil of pent up irritation as you entered your shared apartment. He tried to ease the tension by pushing your shoulder with a playful nudge of his while you slipped out of your shoes. You scoffed though, still griping about him believing you’d be upset over something so trivial. And yes, the irony was lost on you. He let you be then, knowing you’d come around after a while and needing a minute to clear his head himself.

Some hours have passed since, the cool down phase in full effect and you drop on the couch after a long shower that brought some sense of balance to your brain. This ‘fight’ was so stupid, it almost makes you laugh. You shake your head, pulling your bath robe tighter as you swipe on your phone when he walks past you, then stops. He’s testing the waters, you can tell from the way he monitors your body language; how you will or won’t react to his presence. You raise a brow while looking up at him, the corner of your lip pulling upwards. A truce. One he decides to accept, judging by the way he trudges closer.

“You feel better?” he asks and you know he worded it that way on purpose, so as not to ask you if you’ve finally calmed down. 

You huff out a breath, laughter mixed with a hint of reluctance, because that question still suggests that you’ve been overreacting. You don’t pin him down on it, though. Not yet at least. Rather, you return it. “And you?”

“Mhm.” He bends his knees until he’s crouching before you, his eyes now level with yours, one hand resting on your knee for support. “We were both being stupid, huh?”

Yeah, he’s right. Still, you don’t have to admit it right away. “I was just joking, you know? When I said you never listen to me.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he sighs. “An hour too late, I guess.”

The honesty makes you laugh and you drop your phone somewhere in the cracks of the couch cushions. 

Yoongi takes it as an invitation - an unspoken extension of the truce that, if handled correctly, could even lead to peace. “I’m sorry baby,” he says before he leans in. “Let me make it up to you.”

You’re closing in as well, meeting his lips for a single kiss. Smiling now, you might have an idea on how he could fulfill that proposition. “And how would you do that?”

Yoongi cocks his head to the side with a smirk, eyelids narrowing as he thinks about it. He moves from crouching to resting on his knees on the floor before you, hand on the back of your head pulling you forward, so you’re still face to face even though he’s positioned lower than before. He kisses your cheek, lips wandering along your jaw and down the side of your throat where he sucks lightly, making your breath hitch. When his nose traces your earlobe he detaches from you but stays close, whispering, “I’ll do the thing for you.”

“The thing?” Oh, you know exactly which thing.

“Yeah,” he breathes against your neck while his right hand reaches for the lapel of your robe. He rubs the soft material between his fingers before gently pushing it aside and slipping them under. “The thing you like so much, you know.”

With the back of his hand now resting on the supple skin of your chest he pulls his head back to look at you. 

“Hm, I don’t know what you mean,” you lie as you move closer for another kiss. He leans in harder now, sighing against your lips and pushes his tongue into your mouth. He flicks it against yours lightly, barely grazing you with its tip and it makes you chuckle how he’s subtly trying to help you remember. You pull back but keep him near by cupping his cheek. “Ah, that thing.”

His hand under your robe inches down, knuckles brushing over your nipple and the sensation makes it harden instantly. He finds the belt around your waist with his other hand and unties the knot with his thumb. His eyes widen slightly as the fabric falls open and drops loosely around your sides. It’s not like he hasn’t looked at you a million times before. Still, his lids show the tiniest of flutters every single time, the dilation of his pupils barely detectable. 

Yoongi leans in, not taking his gaze off your tits and latches onto your chest. With his lips around one nipple and his hand on the other, he sucks with a slight graze of his teeth and simultaneously rolls his fingers, pulling a gasp from you. 

The smirk on his face is dangerous, bordering on vicious, when he looks up at you. “You know, sometimes I think you’re only provoking those small fights for the make-up sex.” 

He straightens his back when you don't respond, his knees still on the floor and leans backwards as he snakes his hands beneath your legs. With a firm pull, he drags you down the cushion, so your ass rests at the edge of the sofa, your back now flat against the seat. His hands run up the skin of your thighs, grabbing them gently by the backs of your knees and pushing your legs up against your belly while spreading them. “Keep them like this for me, alright?” 

You do what he asked and hold your legs up with your hands, anticipation coiling tightly in your abdomen as you watch him with bated breath.

“So pretty,” he muses quietly when he looks down at you, nodding to himself as if he’s confirming his own remark while his eyes stay glued to your core. “Gonna make it up to you, yeah?”

You nod even though he doesn't wait for your answer anyway, already tilting his head down again but not closing in. He purses his lips a good few inches above your pussy and releases a dense wad of spit, letting it drop slowly so it stretches into a thick string, before it lands directly on your clit. You suck in a breath of surprise at the feeling, your hip jerking as hot slick that’s cooling down quickly trickles down your folds and Yoongi grins as he watches how it coats you.  

When he finally comes closer, his lips trace down the inside of your thigh, kissing and sucking the skin on his way. “Gonna eat you out so good baby,” he mumbles while his thumbs draw lazy circles around the outer edges of your labia. “You want that?”

“Yes,” you whine, mouth agape as you watch him descend. If you weren’t wet before, you certainly are now. “Want it so bad.”

Yoongi chuckles against your skin, hot breath fanning over the slick across your core. His lips are soft when he brushes them from where his thumbs work, up to your mound and his eyes snap to yours just before he closes the last bit of distance to place a kiss on your clit. You shudder at the contact, brows furrowed into a needy frown, to which he only grins. 

His tongue glides across you in calculated motions and - oh - when he flicks it, he’s really doing the thing that always makes your eyes roll back into your head. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, removing your hand from your shin and bringing it down to stroke through his hair. Yoongi’s lids fall shut when your fingers catch hold of a thick strand to pull him even closer and he releases a muffled groan against you. 

He runs his tongue up and down your pussy in unhurried strokes, lapping at your entrance and tracing its outline before coming back up. His finger pushes into you right when his lips close around your clit, sucking lightly and kissing it softly as he applies pressure to his hand, entering you with one single, slow thrust. Your head falls back into the couch cushion when he pumps it in and out, curling it just right, so he hits the spot you need him to. 

“Right there,” you moan, fingers tightening around the hair close to his scalp. He knows, of course he does, that you like it right there and doesn't relent, his tongue still working its wonders while he adds a second finger, pushing and pulling and curling on their way out, making you feel like you’re going to explode. 

Fuck, the muscles in your abdomen are straining, breaths turning shallow and your legs begin to shake already. You're about to come, pulling him even closer and he groans against your pussy again. 

When you tear your eyes open to look at him, you notice him shuffling around a bit and wonder what he's doing. The coil in your belly relaxes at the slight distraction, eyes wandering over his hunched figure. Ah, he moved his free hand down into his pants. You twist your torso a bit to get a better view and take another peak to confirm. Yes, he pushed down his sweats and is jerking himself off while eating you out. 

You giggle, feeling yourself getting even wetter at the thought of him enjoying this so much he has to touch himself, but Yoongi looks up at you at the sound. 

“What's so funny?” he asks, a bit out of breath. 

“Nothing,” you answer as your fingers run across his scalp. “Just didn't expect you to multitask.”

His gaze drops down to his dick, a slight flush on his cheeks before he pulls up his pants. 

“No, don't stop. I like it.”

“Not planning on stopping,” he says as he stands up from the floor and offers you his hand. “Just changing the setting.”

You let him pull you up and guide you into the bedroom, where he pushes the bath robe from your shoulders and takes off his shirt. He pulls you to sit at the edge of the bed, tips of his fingers ghosting up your arms before he tangles them in your hair to pull you in. Your lips meet for a hungry kiss, Yoongi’s nonchalance slowly but surely dissipating. His hands roam your whole body and end up on your tits for a harsh squeeze while you sigh against his lips, desperately wanting to touch him too. You reach out for him, palming him over his sweats and earn a sharp exhale from him. He doesn't grant you access for long though as he pulls back, eager eyes now dark and almost impatient, taking in your figure before he slips away. 

You watch him moving up the mattress where he throws the pillows down to the floor and lays down flat on his back, his head right where the pillows were a second ago. 

“Come here and sit on my face,” he says as his hand already snakes down into his pants again. 

No need to ask you twice, of course you’re going to, you’re already on your way actually. You climb onto the bed and swing a leg over him, straddling his face between your thighs. Yoongi smiles up at you before pulling you closer by your hip. 

“Now let me finish this.” His words slur against your skin as you grab the headboard for support in hopes that it'll help you to come out of this alive. 

His strokes are quick now, diligently lapping at your dripping heat, making you throw your head back, nails digging into the wood in front of you. 

“God, fuck,” you sigh, wanting to tell him how good it feels but alas, you're lost for words, thoughts currently swimming somewhere too far away for your brain to catch up and form a coherent sentence.

You're afraid of suffocating him between your legs, thighs flexing absentmindedly to hold most of your weight up even though his left arm on your hip keeps pulling, pulling, pulling you down and you finally give in and relax. Now that you're really sitting down, he breathes out a groan so content, it vibrates through your whole body. 

Without a doubt he’s giving his all to make it up to you, kissing, tongue swirling, slurping you up until you see stars. Your hips start rocking on him on their own, needily grinding over his face as you chase your release and he seems to like that, judging by the way he hums against you at the constant back and forth. 

“Shit, I’m so close,” you gasp as he’s guiding your movements across his face, tongue rolling over your clit every time you glide over his lips. The coil in your belly tightens as you feel him stir and you turn your head only to see that he’s pushed his sweats down again, hand closed around his dick and stroking himself. The image propels you across the edge, fingers on the headboard digging harder into the wood while your other hand finds his hair to hold on to. With your head spinning and ears ringing, you shudder above him, riding out your high in quick motions, pussy clenching around nothing while he eats you out like you're his favorite meal. 

He’s not stopping his feast, still licking your throbbing clit until you have to pull off of him with a moan that ends up sounding more like a cry. Your body betrays you as you move and you practically fold, falling down on the mattress right next to him and landing on your back with a thump. 

Yoongi gets up on his knees while you gasp for air, towering over your figure with his sweats shoved down his thighs and he immediately presses himself against you, hand on his hard dick, rubbing it up and down your sensitive core. 

“Shit baby,” he grits out with his eyes closed, mouth glistening with your essence as he leans in for another kiss. “Wanna fuck you so bad.”

“Yeah?” you ask, buying yourself a bit more time to calm down. You reach for him and replace his hand with yours, fingers wrapping tightly around his erection. “I’m still so sensitive though.”

His tip is halfway inside of you and his head falls back when you start pumping him slowly, dragging out the moment before he can push in further. “Please baby, you feel so good.”

It makes you chuckle when he begs and he knows you like it, so you can't help yourself from playing that game, still pumping him lazily while he holds himself back from sinking in fully. “Are you sure you've made it up to me properly? You were really mean earlier.”

“Shit, don't do this to me,” he almost whines. “I was so, so good to you, wasn't I? Made you come so hard.”

“Yeah, you did,” you tell him, gripping him a bit tighter as you roll your wrist on him and drawing another sharp breath from his lips while you kiss him. “So you’d say you’ve earned it, huh?”

“Yes!” He nods like you asked him if you should gift him a million dollars right now. “Yes, I’ve earned it. Please baby. Please.”

Can't deny him his wishes, not when he begs so nicely, can you? 

“Alright, yeah,” you whisper while changing the angle of your hold to line him up perfectly. “Go on and fuck me, baby.”

He thrusts in fully without any warning, pushing a moan from your lungs at the sudden intrusion and his lids scrunch together when he does. “Shit, sorry,” he mutters as he stills. “That wasn't… Couldn't help it. Did I hurt you?”

Your hands intertwine behind his neck as you shake your head and relax, getting used to the stretch. “No, it's alright.”

He leans in for a kiss, tongue twisting against yours as he pulls his hip back before he thrusts into you again. He sighs with each move, groaning when your lips part. Gripping your hips as he leans back, he holds you in place, fucking into you with force now and his eyes roll back like he’s losing himself in the feeling. “Always so fucking tight for me.”

The noise of your combined moans, your high pitched whines and his low grunts fill the room, accompanied by the quieter sound of his groin snapping against yours, quite like a beat to the carnal melody that the two of you are creating. 

Yoongi slides his hands down your legs and moves them to drop your ankles upon his shoulders, creating an angle that allows him to go even deeper than before. You're gasping for air from how he plows into you, the roll of his hips making his cock drag across your g-spot with every thrust. 

He grows frantic, spitting out curse words here and there before he takes your hand and guides it between your legs. “Make yourself come on my cock,” he directs with his head falling back between his shoulders. “That’s it baby, I can feel how close you are. Fucking squeezing me.”

He’s right, you are close again, now rubbing yourself in tight circles like he asked and it's like there's no air left in your lungs to exhale. Your muscles tense all over and you bite your tongue to relieve the pressure, watching him pump in and out of you over and over, a vein on his neck straining against his skin like it's about to burst.

“Come for me,” he groans, voice breaking to a tone so wrecked, you both know that no one will ever hear him sound like that but you. 

You follow his command, it’s not like you have a choice, another orgasm crashing all over you and draining your mind from everything that isn't him inside of you. Limbs convulse and sweat drips down your temple as the shuddering waves ripple from your core throughout your whole body. 

Your pussy clenches around him frantically and pulls him over the edge as well, so he can't help the moan from slipping out as his hips stutter with every spurt of cum that he fills you with. His head falls into the crook of your neck, breathing heavily against your sticky skin, still moving, still pressing himself in as deep as he can, like he wants to bury himself inside of you. 

“Shit,” he curses, muffled and drawn out, panting and revelling in the feeling of your cunt still wrapped around him so tightly. “I’m never pulling out of you, just so you know.”

You chuckle as you bring your arms around his back, fingers playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. “You sure about that?”

He’s still breathing heavily and you feel his lips curl into a smile against your skin as he nods. “No doubt about it.” He lifts his head to look into your eyes. “Still mad at me?”

“Never was.”

Masterlist

A few seats away at first, there was a man in dark slacks and a button-up rolled casually at the sleeves. He looked older than most of the crowd, more composed. When his eyes met yours, it wasn’t accidental. He didn’t rush to look away. Instead, his gaze drifted, unapologetic but controlled, lingering at your figure before lifting back to your eyes.

Your stomach flipped.

After a moment, he shifted closer, stopping just beside the empty stool next to you.

“Would you mind if I joined you for a drink?” he said, eyes flicking to the seat and then back to you. It sounded less like a question and more like an invitation. His voice was more captivating than you would’ve expected, with a warm and sinfully smooth tone to it. 

You shook your head, suddenly very aware of how warm your cheeks felt. “Go ahead.”

He sat, his knee angling just slightly toward yours. Close enough that you noticed. Close enough that it felt intentional.

“First time here?” he asked, glancing at your drink.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “Needed something to calm my nerves.”

“Oh?” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Dangerous place to come for that.”

“Tomorrow’s my first day at a new job,” you said, taking another sip. The alcohol buzzed a little stronger now, making you braver. “I figured one drink wouldn’t hurt.”

“Usually doesn’t,” he said, his gaze lingering on you instead of the room. His eyes dipped to the open neckline of your dress. He leaned in just enough that you could smell his cologne, a luxurious scent, if you had to describe it. “You know, that dress,” he murmured, voice deepening, “...it’s very distracting.”

“Distracting, huh?” you teased softly. “That’s not exactly what I expected from someone like you.”

He tilted his head slightly. “I’m—” he paused, like he was deciding whether to give you the real thing or a half-truth, then smirked again, “—Yoongi, by the way.”

You smiled, fingers curling lightly around your glass. “Y/N,” you said, meeting his gaze without flinching.

He repeated it once, slower, like he wanted to feel how it sounded. “Y/N.” His forearm stayed where it was, warm and steady against yours. “Nice to finally put a name to the distraction.”

“Could say the same about you,” you replied, biting your lips without even noticing. 

“I’m not much of a dancer,” he murmured after a moment, his voice softer now, closer. “But I’ll admit… I’d much rather get out of here with you than stay where everyone can see.”

You laughed quietly, but didn’t pull back. “You’re very confident for someone who just met me.”

His fingers slid closer, just barely grazing the side of your hand. “Can’t blame a guy for knowing what he wants.”

The music swelled, and for a second the world narrowed to the space between you. When he leaned in, he met your eyes, as if to ask for permission. You nodded lightly, breaths feeling heavier than they were seconds ago. Before you knew it, his lips pressed lightly against yours, a testing kiss. His hand rested at your waist, warm and possessive without being rough. The two of you thoroughly explored one another’s mouths, the kiss remaining slow and gentle. 

He pulled back once the two of you ran breathless, taking a second to admire your appearance before leaning back in again. 

The scent of alcohol was unmistakable—whiskey on his breath, wine on yours—mingling in a way that made your head feel pleasantly light. The kiss wasn’t careful this time. It was messier, slower to line up, your lips brushing clumsily before finding each other properly.

You kissed him like you’d had just enough to forget yourself. A little sloppy, a little eager. Your balance tilted toward him, and he steadied you without breaking the kiss, fingers tightening just slightly at your hip. He tasted like alcohol and something darker underneath, and you could tell you tasted the same to him by the way he exhaled softly through his nose, like he enjoyed it.

The kiss deepened, as the desperation of the two of you took over. His mouth moved against yours with confidence, letting you lead for a second, letting your intoxicated enthusiasm set the pace before he responded. His thumb traced a slow, absent-minded line along your jawline, grounding you while everything else felt pleasantly blurred.

When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to speak, his lips brushing yours as he did.

“I’m not really a PDA kind of guy,” he murmured, voice low, eyes dark as they flicked briefly to your mouth again. “But I’d really like to show you just how good you’re making me feel.”

His hands hovered at your waist as he leaned in close, forehead nearly touching yours.

“My place isn’t far,” he added quietly. “Easy walk.”

The way he said it was calm and controlled, like it was already decided, and it made your stomach flutter. The bar suddenly felt louder, brighter, and less important. All you could focus on was the warmth of his hand, the lingering taste of alcohol and him on your lips, and the fact that saying yes felt far too easy.

You barely remembered finishing your drink. One moment you were still tasting the lingering sweetness on your tongue, the next his hand was guiding you off the bar stool. The noise of the bar felt distant now, muffled by the warmth humming through your body and the way his attention never left you.

He paid quickly, fingers brushing yours as he did, and that small touch felt heavier than it should have. When you stepped outside, the cool night air hit your flushed skin, making you laugh softly as you swayed just a bit. He noticed immediately, his hand settling at your lower back, grounding you like it was instinct.

“Careful,” he murmured, amused, fond. “You’re a little unsteady.”

“So are you,” you teased back, glancing up at him. His eyes crinkled slightly at that, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

The walk to his place was quiet but the tension was loud. The city lights blurred pleasantly, footsteps syncing as you moved side by side. Every now and then your arm brushed his, or your fingers caught on his sleeve, and neither of you pulled away. The alcohol made everything softer, slower, like the night was stretching just for the two of you.

After a bit more walking, the two of you had finally arrived at his place. 

The lobby was quiet, immaculate. Soft lighting, marble floors, the kind of space that smelled clean and expensive. You suddenly felt very aware of your skimpy dress, of how tipsy you still were, of how wildly out of place you probably looked standing beside him. And yet, his hand stayed warm and steady at your back, like you belonged there.

The elevator ride was silent but heavy. You caught your reflection in the mirrored wall, seeing your flushed cheeks, slightly mussed hair, and eyes that were a little unfocused from alcohol and anticipation. Then you glanced at him with his tailored coat and relaxed posture. You couldn’t really believe you were actually doing this, but you really needed some easing for your nerves. 

The door barely clicked shut before he turned on you, his movements a blur of controlled aggression. He shoved you back against the wood, the impact vibrating through your spine, and pinned your arm high above your head. You thrived on the roughness of his grip; it was a physical manifestation of the restraint he was finally losing.

The kiss wasn't a request—it was a claim. It was fiercer, hungrier, and more invasive than before. When his mouth crashed against yours, it wasn't just a meeting of lips; it was a collision. He used his tongue to force your mouth open, slick and authoritative, demanding total entry.

He didn't just kiss you; he devoured you. You felt the wet slide of his tongue against yours, a rhythmic, deep-reaching intrusion that made your knees weaken. He caught your tongue with his own, pulling it into his mouth to suck on it with a low, primal groan that you felt in your chest more than you heard.

The air between you vanished. His hand at your waist bruised, pulling your hips flush against his, while the other remained braced like a vice beside your head. Every time he broke the seal of the kiss, it was only to lick a path across your bottom lip before diving back in, his tongue sweeping against the roof of your mouth in a way that felt dominant and utterly possessive. He was tasting you, marking you, his desperation vibrating through the heavy, wood-scented air of the room.

He broke the kiss with a wet, lingering sound, his forehead resting against yours for a heartbeat before he tilted his head back. He looked you up and down, a smug, low chuckle vibrating in his chest.

"Look at you," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, thick with the satisfaction of being the one who wrecked your composure. "Hardly catching your breath, and I’ve barely even started with you."

He gently took your hand and led you down the hallway. The alcohol made everything feel softer, dreamlike, your steps slightly unsteady as you followed him. When he opened the bedroom door, you paused again.

It was just as refined with its large bed, crisp linens, low lighting that cast everything in cozy shadows. The room felt intimate without even trying to be. Private. 

He turned to face you then, finally, fully. His gaze drifted over you seductively, taking in your dress, the way it clung to you, the deep dip at your neckline. His eyes darkened just a little and it sent chills through your body.

“Finally,” he said quietly, stepping closer as his presence filled the space between you, “I have the pretty lady all to myself.”

His fingers trailed down your arm, the subtle touch getting your body worked up in ways you didn’t even know were possible. You felt feral, almost. 

“Why don’t we…” he added, voice low and teasing, “get that pretty dress off you now?”

He walked toward you, his movements fluid yet powerful. His fingers found the strap of your dress, and with agonizing slowness, he slipped it down over your shoulder, then the other. The fabric whispered against your skin as it pooled at your feet. You stepped out of it, leaving you in nothing but your lingerie. He took a step back, his eyes sweeping over you in appreciation.

“Well now,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “Aren’t you a surprise.”

You were wearing a matching set of deep burgundy lace. The bra was a balconette style, lifting your breasts and offering them up, the delicate floral pattern of the lace contrasting beautifully against your skin. Thin straps sat on your shoulders, and a small, pretty bow sat nestled between the cups. The panties were high-waisted, the same intricate lace covering the front, scalloped along the edges, with a small satin ribbon tied in a bow at one hip. They were more elegant than anything you’d usually wear, a secret layer of confidence you’d chosen just for yourself.

His gaze dropped to the lace between your legs, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. “Those panties,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “They’re almost as pretty as the girl wearing them.” He knew exactly what he was doing, and the sheer, arrogant certainty in his voice made you want to pull him back in just as much as it made you tremble.

He closed the distance again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw. His thumb rested gently on your cheek, tilting your face up until your eyes met his. “Look at me,” he commanded firmly. Then his lips were on yours. He pulled you flush against him with a force that made your head spin, and you melted into it, a soft moan escaping your throat as you reveled in his dominance.

As he kissed you, he stepped into your space, forcing your legs apart with the weight of his own. He drove his knee upward, wedging it high and hard between your thighs until the fabric of his suit trousers pressed directly against the burgundy lace of your panties.

A muffled cry broke against his lips as he began to rock his leg in a slow, agonizingly deliberate circle. The friction was electric as the rough wool of his slacks against the thin, delicate lace of your crotch created a heat and wetness that made your head spin. He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you steady as he forced you to grind against him.

He was using his knee to stoke the fire he’d started, his movements authoritative and unyielding. You arched into him, your hands clutching his shoulders as the friction sent waves of unbearable tension through your lower body. Every time you tried to speed up the pace, he’d growl into the kiss, his knee providing a heavy, constant pressure that made you feel utterly conquered.

His hands finally slid past the swell of your hips, his palms hot against your skin, before trailing lower to catch the curve of your ass. He squeezed the firm flesh with a bruising strength, molding you against his frame, before he suddenly pulled back just enough to deliver a sharp spank.

The sound of the impact cracked through the quiet of the room, and the sting sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. You gasped into his mouth, your body bucking instinctively against him, your fingers gripping tightly onto the muscles of his back.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he chuckled against your lips with a low, dark vibration that felt like a purr of pure satisfaction. He leaned in closer, his teeth grazing your lower lip as he felt you tremble. "I thought you might like that," he whispered, his voice thick with the thrill of your reaction. "Do you want another, or are you going to behave?"

It was at this point that he’d finally decided to break the seal of your mouths. His chest was heaving, his gaze dropping to where his leg was buried between yours.

“The bed,” he rasped, the command leaving no room for argument.

He began to walk you backward, guiding your stumbling steps toward the large bed. The backs of your knees hit the edge, and he gently lowered you down onto the crisp sheets, his body hovering over yours, caging you in. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his chest heaving slightly. Then, with a sense of urgency, he rid himself of his clothes. His blazer and shirt were discarded in a heap on the floor, followed by his slacks, leaving him in just a pair of black boxer briefs that did little to hide the hard ridge of his arousal.

While he was undressing, you reached behind your back and unhooked your bra, letting it fall away. Your breasts spilled free, your nipples pebbling in the cool air. You moved to take off your panties, but he stopped you, his fingers hooking into the delicate lace at your hips.

“Allow me,” he murmured, his eyes glued to your core as he slowly, torturously, pulled them down your legs and tossed them aside. His gaze was intense and hungry and you’d just wanted him to devour every bit of you already.

The thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric of his boxers was surely no help either. A surge of boldness suddenly washed over you as you sat up to allow your hand to reach out and palm him through the cotton. He groaned, his hips twitching into your touch.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. You knelt before him, pulling his boxers down. His cock was finally fully visible to you, wet and hard. 

You wrapped your hand around his shaft, feeling his velvety skin over the steel-hard length. You leaned in, sticking out your tongue to swirl it around the flushed head. A deep groan rumbled in his chest. You began to stroke him, your hand moving in long, slow pulls from base to tip while your tongue continued to explore, lapping at the sensitive slit. You loved the sounds he made, the way his breath hitched with every flick of your tongue.

You got sloppy with it, letting your saliva coat his length until it was dripping, the wet sounds filling the room. He seemed to love it, his fingers tangling in your hair. You shifted, taking more of him into your mouth, sucking him deep as your hands moved down to gently massage his balls.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his voice strained. “You’re so good at that.”

After a moment, he tightened his grip on your hair.

“Look at me,” he panted.

When your eyes met his, they were dark with lust.

“You want to gag on my cock?” You weren’t expecting the raw, filthy question, but it didn’t make you want it any less. “I want to see my cock stuffed in that pretty face of yours. Could you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you breathed, the word a desperate, enthusiastic plea. “God, yes.”

He helped you reposition, settling you more comfortably on your knees. He placed a hand on the back of your head, his other hand gripping his shaft to guide it to your lips.

“Open up,” he commanded.

You did, and he began to thrust into your mouth. He started slow, letting you get used to the rhythm, but it wasn’t long before he was chasing his own pleasure. You could feel his cock exploring the walls of your throat with each thrust, going deeper and deeper. Your gag reflex prickled, and you choked slightly, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. He pulled back immediately, giving you a moment to breathe whenever necessary. 

“Again?” he asked, his voice rough.

You nodded, eager, and he slid back in, picking up the pace once more. You could taste the salty precum on your tongue with every thrust.

After what felt like an eternity of the delicious, rough face-fucking, he pulled you up, his mouth crashing against yours in a messy, passionate kiss. You could taste yourself on him as he pushed you back onto the bed, his body covering yours. He kissed his way down your body, over your breasts, your stomach, until he was settled between your thighs. He didn’t touch you right away, teasing you with kisses on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Then, without warning, he gave your clit a long, hard, pressured lick.

You yelped, your back arching off the bed at the sudden, intense feeling of pleasure. He did it again, and again, and you couldn’t stop the high-pitched whines and moans that spilled from your lips. The feeling was overwhelming, a dizzying spiral of sensation. He switched to sucking, drawing your clit into his mouth and flicking his tongue against it. It was another level of pleasure entirely. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands as you tried to guide his movements, desperate for more.

“You taste so fucking good,” he groaned against you.

While he was lost in you, you felt his cock twitch against your leg, and a sudden, desperate need to ride him took over. You pushed at his shoulders, and he got the message, rolling onto his back. You straddled him, a satisfied, predatory grin spreading across his face. His hands immediately found your hips, gripping you tight.

You sank down onto his cock, the stretch a perfect, burning pleasure. He helped you find a rhythm, lifting you and slamming you back down onto his length. The feeling of his strong hands gripping your sides and ass, controlling your movements, was intoxicating. You took over, setting a punishing pace, rolling your hips and grinding down on him. He met you thrust for thrust, his hips bucking up to meet yours, driving himself deeper and deeper inside you. The room filled with the sounds of your moans, his groans, and the slap of skin against skin.

It was a desperate race toward the edge, and when you finally fell forward, your orgasm crashed through you with the force of a tidal wave, your body convulsing with the force of it. He followed you moments later with a loud, guttural groan, his own release pulsing deep inside you.

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting and slick with sweat. You two laid there for a while after, the frantic energy slowly ebbing away into a warm, sated glow. The alcohol haze was fading, replaced by a pleasant exhaustion. You shifted, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, and your eyes widened.

“Shit,” you muttered, scrambling to sit up. “I have to go. It’s way later than I thought.” You’d finally pushed yourself up off the bed, slowly gathering your clothes that were all in different locations of the room. 

“Stay,” he rasped, the command softened by the gravel in his voice. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your spine. “The bed is finally warm.”

“I wish I could,” you admitted, gripping your burgundy lace panties from the floor. 

He watched you dress with hooded eyes, a look that made you feel like you were still under his thumb even as you hooked your bra. He moved with a slow grace to gather his own clothes, the comfortable silence between you charged with the memory of what had just happened.

“Don’t think I’m letting you disappear,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. He didn’t ask but simply held it out, waiting for you to bridge the gap.

You recited your number, and a second later, your phone vibrated on the nightstand.

He walked you to the door, but he didn't just let you walk out. He caught your waist, pulling your back against his chest as he tapped at his screen. “I’m calling you a car. I’m not having you wandering around this late.”

When the headlights cut through the darkness outside, he turned you in his arms.

“I’ll be in touch,” he murmured, his voice low and certain. “And next time, you aren't leaving the bed until I say so.”

He stepped back just enough to let you breathe, but his gaze remained locked on yours until the car door clicked shut. As the cab pulled away, you watched his silhouette in the rearview mirror, standing under the glow of the streetlamp with his hands in his pockets.

The city blurred past the window, a smear of neon and shadow that felt light-years away from the room you had just left. Your skin felt hypersensitive, the friction of your clothes a constant reminder of the way he’d handled you. Every time the car hit a bump, you felt the faint, throbbing ache between your thighs. You touched your bottom lip and it was swollen, sensitive to the slightest graze of your finger.

The short drive ended quietly, the soft click of your apartment door sealing the night behind you. The lingering scent of his cologne and the ghost of his touch clung to you like a second skin. 

A soft, shaky sigh escaped your lips. Your head was still a tad bit fuzzy from the drinks, a gentle haze that softened the edges of reality and made the memory of his hands on your hips and his tongue in your mouth feel more like a fever dream than a Tuesday night.

Your phone buzzed, the vibration rattling through your hand and cutting through the quiet of the entryway. You didn't even have to look to know it was him. A single, weighted sentence stared back at you:

“I can still taste you.”

A slow, involuntary smile spread across your face. You toed off your heels, the relief immediate, and padded toward your bedroom, your fingers already flying across the keyboard. “Really? And what exactly do I taste like?” you typed back, the honesty of it sending a fresh thrill through you.

His reply was instantaneous. “Actually, I’m starting to forget. I think I need you to come back here so I can make sure.” You paused, your thumb hovering over the screen as a slow, secret smile spread across your face. 

You dropped your phone on the bed and began to undress, the sleek fabric of your clothes feeling like a costume you were finally done with. The bathroom filled with steam as you turned on the shower, the warmth acting as a welcome embrace against your sensitive skin.

“Gonna shower then head to bed,” you texted, setting the phone on the counter. You paused, biting your lip before adding, “Need to be a professional, functioning human for at least eight hours.” The reply came through while you were unhooking your bra, the chime sharp against the bathroom tile.

“Is that right?” he shot back. “You’re going to sit in a boardroom and pretend you didn’t just get railed the night before?”

He was playing with you, marking his territory from miles away.

You stepped under the hot spray, the water cascading over your body, washing away the lingering stickiness of the club and the heat of the car. On a sudden, wicked impulse, you grabbed your phone with a damp hand. The screen fogged slightly as you snapped a picture—just your chest, covered in a thick layer of white soap. You hit send before you could second-guess yourself.

His response didn’t take long. “Fuck.” 

The single word was heavy, loaded with unspoken desire. You finished your shower quickly, the air outside feeling cool against your heated skin. You toweled off and slipped into something soft and comfortable, an oversized t-shirt that barely covered your thighs, and slid between the cool sheets of your bed.

You kept your phone in your hand, your fingers brushing idly over the screen as his texts lingered in your mind, the phantom weight of his body still pressed against yours. The alcohol haze was settling, but your mind was wide awake, replaying every moment.

Finally, you typed a simple: “Goodnight.”

His reply came a moment later, a simple, “Same goes to you, sexy thing.” 

You set the phone down on the nightstand, a slow smile on your lips as you closed your eyes, his last message a sweet, thrilling lullaby.

Morning came too fast. Your head ached, the dull throb of the hangover making your temples tight. You groaned, tugging your hair back, and realized you were already running late. First day at a new job, and your body reminded you that last night’s indulgence had consequences.

You moved quickly, throwing on a professional outfit that felt both sharp and safe. It was fitted enough to look put together, but simple. Your makeup was light, applied in a rush, and you styled your hair just enough to look presentable. You caught your reflection and nearly laughed, patting your hair again and adding a touch more makeup to disguise how tired you really were.

With your water bottle in hand and your bag over your shoulder, you stepped into the day. Your pulse was still high from the night before, and a quiet thrill lingered under the dull headache. First day. New job.

The elevator dinged, and you stepped out into the office lobby, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights. The building smelled faintly of coffee and polished wood. The environment was professional, but definitely a little intimidating. You tugged your blazer a little straighter, trying to ignore the throb behind your eyes. You thought the feeling would’ve been long gone by now but the alcohol from last night still made a distant appearance in the back of your head.

“You must be Y/N. Welcome.” A receptionist smiled at you, clipboard in hand. “We’re just about ready to get you settled.”

You nodded, forcing yourself to look composed. Your legs felt unsteady in your heels as you followed her down the corridor, ears picking up the faint hum of phones ringing, keyboards clicking, and quiet murmurs of colleagues already at work. Each sound felt sharper, somehow louder, through the fog in your head.

“This way,” she said, leading you to a small office area. “You’ll start with a bit of orientation, then we’ll get you familiar with the system. Oh, and here’s your workstation.” She gestured to a sleek desk with a polished surface, a computer already booted up, and a chair that adjusted too smoothly. “You can get settled here, there’s some training modules we’ll just have you do for today. I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything.” 

You nodded, trying to appear the part of the capable new hire. 

With a final, encouraging smile, she turned and headed back toward the lobby. You took a seat, the chair adjusting with a smooth, expensive hiss that made you feel small in the minimalist space. The office was clean and modern and there was a subtle sophistication to everything, but you couldn’t tell if it was the neutral color palette or the quiet efficiency of the layout. You smoothed the front of your blouse over your chest and took a deep breath. 

Your hands hovered over the keyboard, shoulders tense, fingers useless as your thoughts drifted back to the blurry events of last night, despite your best efforts. It had been a while since you’d let yourself fall into something so reckless, so fleeting—a one-night stand type meeting with no expectations and no promises. You hated how much it took over your thoughts, but you couldn’t help it. It left you wanting more, even now, but you exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. 

You straightened, finally pressing your fingers to the keys and pulling yourself back to work. You weren’t going to let a single night of poor decisions ruin your first day.

For the next hour, you actually managed to sink into the flow. You navigated through the software orientation with a sharp, practiced focus, clicking through the security protocols and taking diligent notes in a leather-bound notebook. The rhythmic clack-clack of the keyboard became a mantra, grounding you. You answered a few introductory emails from the HR team and organized your digital workspace, your movements efficient and professional. Aside from the occasional, faint stir of silk against your skin, you had successfully pushed last night into a neat little box at the back of your mind. You were a professional, and you were proving it.

It wasn’t long before a movement in your peripheral caught your attention. A man was walking down the aisle of desks, a familiar stride that made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t expect. And then your brain finally caught up. Yoongi.

Your heart did a little double take. The same dark hair, the same smirk, and the same casual confidence. He was right here. In the office. Your new job. What was he doing here? 

You froze, cheeks heating, and quickly looked down at your keyboard like the screen could shield you from recognition. He noticed you immediately, eyebrows quirking as his gaze slid over you. A small, near-silent chuckle escaped his lips before he continued to the desk beside you, acting perfectly nonchalant. 

Your phone buzzed, and you didn’t need to even look to know who it was.

“Nice seeing you here. If I didn’t know what a dirty girl you really are, I’d totally believe that innocent, businesslike act of yours.”

You bit your lip so hard it almost hurt, the sting helping to ground you as a furious blush stained your cheeks. Dirty? You glanced over discreetly; he was already at his desk, his fingers moving with a lazy, practiced rhythm over his keyboard, but the glint in his dark eyes was unmistakable. He was enjoying the chaos he’d just dropped into your lap.

You tried to refocus on the modules, but the words on the screen were just a blur of black and white. You reached for your coffee, the warm ceramic of the mug acting as an anchor for your trembling hands. Every shadow that moved in the corner of your eye made you jump, your heart hammering against your ribs.

And then, you felt him.

He was walking past your workstation again, his pace agonizingly slow, as if he were savoring the way your posture went rigid the moment he drew near. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. Your hand jerked instinctively, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the mug.

“Careful now,” he warned, his voice a low, playful rumble just behind your ear. You jumped, a small gasp escaping your lips before you could choke it back. He leaned down just a fraction closer as he passed, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Don’t want you spilling coffee on yourself… can’t have you soaking wet on your first day can we?”

He let the words linger in the air as a deliberate, wet promise, before he straightened. You managed a shaky, breathless laugh, trying to hide your flustered heartbeat behind the mug. “I... I’m fine,” you muttered, your knuckles white as you gripped the coffee.

In your haste to look busy, your hand brushed against a silver pen resting on the edge of the polished desk. It rolled, clicking softly against the wood before dropping off the side. Without thinking, you ducked down to retrieve it, leaning forward and reaching toward the floor.

The movement caused the deep neckline of your blouse to fall away from your skin.

From his vantage point, standing right over you, the view was unobstructed. You realized it the second you looked up, pen in hand, that he wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring straight down into the dip of your shirt, his eyes dark and fixed on the soft swell of your breasts.

The air in the cubicle felt like it had been set on fire. You straightened up quickly, clutching the pen, but the damage was done. He smirked, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that told you he’d memorized every inch of what he just saw.

He leaned in one last time, his voice dropping to a whisper that was for your ears only. “And is that view just for me?”

He didn't wait for an answer. He straightened his tie and kept walking, leaving you breathless and gripping your pen so hard the metal bit into your palm.

Your eyes darted back to the screen, trying to finish the modules to the best of your ability, despite the difficulty of such a simple task. Every clack of your keyboard felt loud and every reminder of his presence seemed amplified. Your mind was a riot of the absurd realization that Yoongi, your mysterious flirt from last night, was right here, mere feet from you, acting as if nothing was happening at all.

Your mind betrayed you, flashing to the naughty images from last night. With him on top of you, that smirk as he hovered close, and the way his hands moved over you, how could you get any of this work done? 

You eventually snapped yourself back to reality, taking a slow, steadying breath before letting your fingers glide over the keyboard with a little more confidence.

It seemed Yoongi was finally giving you some space, leaving you alone to work without any more teasing interruptions, for now. The faint buzz of the office and the hum of computers became your rhythm, and slowly, you started to fall back into the task at hand, though a tiny part of your mind remained painfully aware of his presence nearby, just in case he decided to strike again.

It wasn’t long before you glanced at the clock and realized it was just about time for lunch. Grabbing your bag, you made your way toward the break room. The small kitchen area smelled faintly of reheated meals and coffee, the vibrations of the refrigerator acting as a background to your thoughts.

You popped open the lid of the instant ramen you’d brought along with you and heated it up before taking it over to one of the tables. You settled in, letting the steam from the noodles warm your hands, hoping the routine act of eating would help ground you after the morning’s… distractions.

You were just about to take your first bite when you sensed a presence beside you.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Your heart lurched. You glanced up. Of course. It was him. Yoongi. Leaning casually, that effortless confidence in his posture, eyes dark and knowing. Your cheeks heated immediately and you nodded before you could stop yourself.

No one else was in the break room yet, and suddenly the air felt thick between you. He sat, close enough that you felt your breaths get shorter and heavier. How could he get you like this? 

“You’re such a tease,” you murmured, the words coming out as a soft, breathless confession.

“Only because I like seeing you struggle.” he countered.  He leaned in just a fraction closer, his shoulder brushing against yours “You’re so cute when you’re a horny mess.”

Your eyes widened, a sharp intake of breath betraying you. You looked around frantically, praying no one was rounding the corner to hear him dismantle your composure so easily.

Trying to regain some scrap of dignity, you jabbed your fork into the noodles. “So… you didn’t get lunch yet?” you asked, your voice higher than usual.

He leaned back slightly, eyes glinting with mischief. He nodded toward the small bag of snacks he’d tossed on the table, but the look in his eyes said something entirely different. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, his smirk widening. “My lunch is sitting right next to me.”

The blatant innuendo was frustratingly effective at getting you worked up. You tried to feign annoyance, tapping your chopsticks against the rim of the bowl. “Persistent, aren’t you?” “Hungry,” he corrected, the word vibrating with a double meaning that made your hand shake.

He shrugged with a mock innocence that didn't reach his eyes. You couldn’t deny it—you thrived on this. Every whisper and every lingering glance made the desire coil tighter in your stomach. You’d been aching for him since you woke up, and his relentless teasing was only feeding the desperation.

You hadn’t realized just how dangerously close you’d leaned into his space until the heavy thud of footsteps broke the spell. Your stomach dropped as a coworker, Kai, strolled into the breakroom. His eyes landed on Yoongi immediately, then flickered to you with a friendly, unsuspecting curiosity.

“Hey, Yoongi,” Kai called out, leaning casually against the counter. “Did you tell her about the barbecue tonight?”

The invisible heat between you and Yoongi was so thick you were sure Kai could see it. In a sudden, panicked rush, you scooted your chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the linoleum. You buried your face in your ramen, pretending to be deeply fascinated by a stray noodle. Totally not suspicious, you thought, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Kai didn’t seem to notice. He grinned at you, eyes bright with the typical excitement of an office social. “It’s a tradition! Everyone shows up, the food is great. You should definitely come, it’s the best way to meet the team.”

He gave a quick thumbs-up and headed back out, his footsteps fading down the hall.

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with the residual electricity of Kai almost catching you. Yoongi didn’t move back. Instead, he watched you with that familiar, ruinous smirk.

“He’s right. You should be there,” Yoongi said, his voice dropping back into that low, gravelly register that made the rest of the room disappear. “I’m planning on staying late. And I have a very specific set of ideas for how we’re going to spend your ‘after-hours’ orientation. I'd hate for you to miss it.”

You noticed the subtle inflection in his tone, the way his words carried a hint of promise beyond just a night out. You glanced at him, trying to mask the flutter in your stomach, and he caught it immediately, obvious from his facial expression. 

“Okay,” you whispered, the word feeling small against the weight of his attention. “I’ll be there.”

He chuckled, a short, dark sound of victory. “Good girl. I’ll see you tonight. Try to keep your head in the files until then.”

The day dragged on, the hours stretching longer than you expected, though at least the work itself wasn’t unbearable. You found yourself stealing glances at Yoongi now and then, resisting the urge to check your phone for another message or a sly comment. He was at his desk, pretending to type, but you caught the cheeky grin that never seemed to fully leave his lips when he thought no one was looking.

When the clock finally released you, the office cleared out in a blur of small talk. You gathered your things, your hands finally steady enough to pack your bag. As you passed his desk, he didn't even look up from his screen, but his voice reached you.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said quietly, only enough for you to hear. 

You nodded, trying to keep your voice steady. “See you then.”

The bus ride home was a blur of anticipation. The thought of being around him again and this time outside of the office, made your pulse thrum a little faster. This was especially enticing when considering the events that occurred between the two of you the night before. 

At home, you started rifling through your closet, searching for something that was nice but not too over the top. You settled on a fitted silk blouse in a deep, midnight blue and a skirt that skimmed your thighs just right. You spent a little too much time on your hair, letting the curls fall loosely over your shoulders, and finished with a swipe of gloss that made your lips look bitten and plush. You looked in the mirror, took a steadying breath, and told your racing heart to behave.

The restaurant was a chaotic mix of savory smoke, cold beer, and the loud, boisterous laughter of people finally off the clock. You stepped through the door, scanning the crowded tables until your eyes locked onto his.

The place was lively as you arrived, laughter and conversation spilling out from the restaurant where the barbecue was in full swing. The smell of grilled and marinated meat hit you instantly, mingling with the faint tang of alcohol. Your heart beat a little faster when you spotted Yoongi seated at the table, casually leaning back as he surveyed the crowd. Around him, coworkers laughed and clinked glasses, but his focus found you immediately.

“Glad you came,” he said as you approached, his voice cutting through the surrounding chatter. He didn't stand, but he reached out, his fingers briefly ghosting over the side of your waist as he gestured toward the empty chair beside him.

You made your way over, trying to appear casual.

You sat, and almost immediately, the "professional" distance you’d tried to maintain collapsed. His arm brushed yours as he reached for a plate. You went rigid, your breath catching in your throat, and you knew by the way his jaw tightened that he felt the exact moment you faltered.

He didn't stop there. Under the shelter of the heavy tablecloth, his hand slid onto your thigh. His palm was warm, his grip firm. He didn't move at first; he just let the weight of his hand settle there, marking you while he casually joined a conversation about quarterly projections.

“Yoongi…” you murmured, the name escaping you as a faint, desperate breath.

“Mm?” He didn't even look at you. He leaned in just enough for his shoulder to pin yours, his voice a low, vibration intended for your ears alone. “Something wrong?”

His fingers began a slow, torturous climb. He traced the seam of your skirt, his thumb dipping just beneath the hem to graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The sensation was a lightning strike of heat that settled directly between your legs.

You were losing it. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, and the polite chatter of your coworkers sounded like it was coming from miles away. You couldn't sit there and pretend to be a "new hire" for one more second while he was dismantling you under the table.

“Excuse me,” you managed, standing abruptly. The chair legs shrieked against the floor, drawing a few curious glances from the table. You didn't wait to explain so you just turned and moved toward the restrooms, your legs weak. 

The cool air of the restroom did nothing to dampen the fire he’d started. You leaned against the sink, staring at your reflection as your eyes were blown wide, your cheeks a frantic, deep pink.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. It was him:

“On a scale of 1–5, how ruined are those panties right now? I’m gonna bet on 5 ;)"

You let out a frustrated breath, leaning your forehead toward the mirror. You felt the undeniable, heavy dampness between your thighs signaling he was absolutely right.

You splashed cold water on your face, took three deep breaths to steady your pulse, and walked back out. You found him exactly where you left him, leaning back with a glass in his hand. He didn't say a word as you sat down, but his slow, teasing smirk said it all. 

The rest of the barbecue felt like a blur of polite nods and shallow conversation. As predicted, once the managers began to settle their tabs and head for the exits, the atmosphere shifted. The "performance" was over. 

Once everyone was ready to get going, you followed the group down the dimly lit street. Yoongi trailed just behind you, his presence a physical weight at your back. He wasn’t touching you yet, but he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, marking his territory in the middle of the sidewalk.

“You sure you can keep up?” he murmured, cutting through the city noise. “It’s a long night. I’d hate for you to get overwhelmed before we even get started.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “I’ll manage,” you replied, though your voice lacked any real conviction.

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing under the amber glow of the streetlights. “Good. Because I don't plan on letting you out of my sight tonight.” You bit your lip, trying to suppress the rush that bloomed wherever he touched.

The club was a sensory assault. The moment the heavy doors opened, the bass rolled through your chest like a heartbeat, and the air turned thick with the scent of expensive alcohols and crowded skin.

Yoongi didn't hesitate. He stepped up behind you, his hand finding the small of your back. And it wasn't a gentle guide. It was a firm, possessive grip that pulled you flush against him as he wove through the chaos of a crowd. Every time a stranger got too close, his hand tightened, his fingers splaying across your spine as if to remind the room exactly who you belonged to.

He navigated you toward a darker corner, the neon lights flashing in rhythmic bursts that made his eyes glisten amidst the lights. He leaned in, his chest pressing into your back, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear.

“You’re struggling,” he murmured. He leaned in until his lips were hovering against your cheek. “I think you’ve had enough of playing nice for the cameras. We could walk out that door right now and no one would even notice. Is that what you want?”

Your pulse spiked as you nodded. “Yes… please,” you breathed, the word barely above a whisper. “I want to get out of here.”

He didn't just smile—he smirked with the triumph of a man who knew he’d won. His hand slid up your thigh, his fingers hooking into the hem of your skirt and pulling the fabric just an inch higher. He didn't move his hand any further and simply allowed it to rest there. His thumb traced the sensitive skin of your inner leg while you stood in the middle of the crowd, trapped between his body and the music.

As a group of people surged past, he used the momentum to press you against him. You could feel the hard line of his frame and the rhythm of the club’s bass vibrating through both of your chests at once. 

“Come on. I’m tired of sharing the view.”

The transition was jarring. One moment you were in a world of neon and sweat, and the next, you were stepping into the sharp, biting chill of the night air. The heavy bass faded into a muffled hum behind you as he took your hand. He pulled you along, his strides long and purposeful as he navigated toward the darker side streets where the streetlights were sparse.

By the time you reached his car, the city felt like it had disappeared. He unlocked it and held the door open, his eyes dark and unreadable in the shadows.

“Get in,” he ordered, his gaze sweeping over you one last time before you slid into the shadows of the back seat. 

The door clicked shut as he followed you inside, sealing out the rest of the world. The car was silent, smelling of his cologne and expensive leather. With him occupying the seat beside you, the space felt impossibly small. 

He looked at you—not with the "work Yoongi" smirk, but with the raw, hungry gaze of the man who had pinned you to the door the night before.

You moved without hesitation, swinging one leg over his lap to straddle him. The fabric of your skirt bunched up around your thighs, exposing more skin to the cool leather of the seats. His hands were instantly on you, one gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back to press you closer.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips before capturing them in a hungry, desperate kiss. 

The kiss was a collision that was hungry, desperate, and entirely devoid of the "professional" restraint he’d worn all day. His tongue was a hot, confident intrusion that made your head spin, and you met him with equal fervor, your fingers tangling into the dark hair at the nape of his neck.

His hands moved with a brutal purpose, mapping the curves he’d been eyeing from across the office. One hand slid down to find the swell of your ass, gripping it tightly as he held you closely against him. The distance was so close that you could feel the heavy, pulsing hardness of him through his dress slacks, a silent demand that made your stomach flip.

“Need to see you,” he let out a jagged growl.

He didn't fumble. His fingers worked the buttons of your blouse with a surprising speed until the silk fell open. He moved to the clasp of your bra, the metal giving out with a sharp click that echoed in the quiet cabin of the car. As the lace fell away, your breasts were finally exposed. He cupped them with his hands, fondling them in soft circles.

He groaned before burying his face between them. His chin scraped deliciously against your sensitive skin as he pressed kisses to the valley between your breasts. His hands came up to hold them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you were arching into his touch with a soft moan.

“Yoongi,” you gasped, your head hitting the window as his mouth closed around one peak. Your hips rolled instinctively, seeking friction against the hard ridge of his cock still trapped in his pants.

“Like that?” he murmured against your damp skin, before switching his focus to the other breast. “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven't you? Sitting at that desk, wondering exactly how my mouth would feel on you.”

His words sparked a reckless fire in you. Reaching down, you tried to slide your hand beneath the hem of your skirt to find your slick folds, but he intercepted your wrist with a firm, sudden grip.

“Patience,” he chuckled, though his voice was laced with restraint.

But savoring seemed to be the last thing on his mind as his hands slid down to your hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. He tugged them down as far as he could in this position, his knuckles brushing against your wet folds. You gasped at the contact, your body already humming with anticipation.

But his "savoring" was far from gentle. Two fingers dipped under your skirt and into the waistband of your lace panties before dragging them down in one swift motion. His fingers pressed against your wetness and you couldn’t seem to contain yourself. 

“Look at you,” he murmured, sliding a finger through your slickness with a slow, agonizing confidence. “Already so wet for me. You were telling the truth after all, weren’t you?”

You could only nod, words failing you as his thumb found your clit, rubbing circles that made your vision blur with pleasure. Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as you rode his hand, chasing the building pressure.

“Please,” you finally managed to gasp out. “I need you inside me now.”

With a dark groan of agreement, he fumbled with his belt, the metallic click sounding deafening in the quiet car. He freed himself—thick, hot, and already glistening—and you didn't wait. You shifted, straddling him in the cramped darkness, your knees pressing into the leather on either side of his hips.

You sank down slowly, the stretch so intense it made your head roll back. You took him inch by inch, your body tight and welcoming, until you were fully seated. The air in the car was thick, the windows already beginning to fog over, sealing you both into a private, humid world.

His eyes were dark with lust as he watched you, lips parted as soft pants escaped him. “God, look at you,” he murmured, reaching up to cup your breasts. “Riding me like you were made for it.”

The praise was like fuel. You increased the pace, your movements turning frantic as you bounced against him, the cabin of the car filling with the raw, rhythmic sounds of the encounter—the slick slap of skin, the heavy creak of the leather, and the tangled sounds of your breathing.

His hands guided your movements, sometimes urging you faster, other times pulling you down harder onto him. When he leaned forward to capture a nipple in his mouth again, you cried out, the dual sensations pushing you closer to the edge.

“Yoongi, I—”

“I know,” he cut in, voice strained. “Let go for me. Want to feel you come around my cock.”

His words combined with a particularly well-angled thrust sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, waves of pleasure making your body convulse as you cried out his name. He kept thrusting up into you, forcing you to feel every vibration of your climax until you finally collapsed against his chest, panting and boneless.

“Perfect,” he murmured, kissing your temple as you caught your breath. “Absolutely perfect.”

But he wasn’t done with you yet. With surprising strength, he adjusted your position, lifting you slightly before flipping you so your back was pressed against the door and he was hovering over you. The new angle allowed him to thrust deeper, and you gasped as he drove back into you, this time with a passion that told you he was close.

“Where do you want it?” he demanded, his voice ragged. “Tell me where it goes.”

“Inside,” you breathed, your legs locking around his waist to pull him closer. “Please, Yoongi. Inside.”

With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep one last time, his body going rigid as he filled you. You felt the pulses of his release deep inside, reaching even your sensitized nerves. You clung to him, your fingers resting against his shoulders until he eventually sunk his weight onto you.

For several minutes, neither of you moved. The world outside the fogged windows had ceased to exist. The scent of him was everywhere and it dark, masculine, and intoxicating.

Finally, the tension in his muscles eased. He shifted, pulling back just enough to look at you before he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. 

“That was a good start,” he mumbled. He reached out, his fingers beginning to idly toy with a stray lock of your hair. “But I don't think eight hours of wanting you is out of my system yet.”

You were about to answer and tell him exactly how much you wanted that second round, when a sudden burst of laughter cut through the quiet of the street.

Your heart stopped.

Through the fogged side window, a group of people was spilling out of the club’s side exit, their voices loud and fueled by adrenaline. You froze as you recognized a familiar tone—Kai. “I’m telling you, she probably just went home,” Kai’s voice drifted through the glass, closer than you ever wanted it to be. “New hires always flake out early. But Yoongi? That man is a ghost. He probably disappeared to close some deal or find a quieter bar.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. You were half-dressed, tangled in the back seat with the man they were looking for, hidden only by a thin layer of condensation on the glass. One curious glance, one hand wiping away the steam, and your career would be over before it started.

Yoongi didn't panic. He didn't even flinch. He simply went still, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly calm intensity. He placed a single finger over his lips as a silent command for you to stay absolutely quiet.

The footsteps lingered. A shadow fell across the fogged window as someone leaned momentarily against the car's frame to light a cigarette. The car rocked slightly under the weight. You held your breath until your lungs burned, your eyes wide as you stared at Yoongi’s silhouette in the dark.

Finally, the voices began to fade. “Come on, the after-party is two blocks away. Let’s go.”

Yoongi stayed close for a moment longer, his eyes tracing the wreckage he’d made of your blouse before he finally pulled back and shifted into the driver's seat.

“Suddenly, the thought of my shower after a long night sounds awfully appealing,” he said, his voice a low velvet. “Care to join?”

masterlist

The partners at the firm are in the final stretch of closing a massive case, which means tension is high and patience is nonexistent. Emails pile in faster than you can properly read them. Your phone rings before you’ve finished the last call. Every document seems to need revising, formatting, printing, signing, and to be sent out yesterday. You’ve been moving nonstop, a one-person relay between departments, clients, and lawyers who all seem convinced their request is the only one that matters.

And because the universe apparently enjoys piling it on, the firm’s annual gala is this weekend.

So on top of everything else, you’ve also been coordinating RSVPs, seating charts, last-minute changes from people who absolutely should know better, and fielding passive aggressive emails about floral arrangements like they matter even a fraction as much as the deal that’s about to close. 

By the time you get home every night, you barely even have enough time to shower and collapse into bed, let alone knock on Yoongi’s door and…

Well, you actually don’t know what the hell is supposed to come next.

After… what happened last week, you didn’t really discuss a next time. You didn’t discuss anything at all, really. 

Yoongi held you until your tears dried, helped you get ready for bed, laid with you until you fell asleep, and that was it. It was nice, and it was definitely what you needed in the moment, but it was also almost entirely nonverbal.

When you woke up the next morning, it was like nothing had happened at all. You spent the rest of the weekend together doing completely PG things, and then you went to work Monday morning glowing and blissfully unaware of the shitstorm of paperwork you were about to walk into. 

Since then, your interactions with Yoongi have been limited to texts. Extremely normal, short-and-to-the-point texts about groceries and bills and cancelling plans so you can spend more time in the office.

Texts that are remarkably unsexy, even though sex is practically all you’ve been thinking about during the rare moments that your mind can actually wander.

As a result, you’ve been keyed up and irritable, every minor inconvenience scraping against nerves already fried by the overwhelming arousal you can’t seem to shake. More than once, you catch yourself staring off mid-task, thoughts slipping somewhere filthy and consuming—the memory of Yoongi’s hands, his voice in your ear, the press of his clothed erection beneath you.

It’s constant, intrusive, and maddening, and underneath the frustration is that insistent want to taste that kind of pleasure again—to squeeze out every delicious drop you can, maybe until someone, like… passes out or something.

And it doesn’t help that every night, when you finally drag yourself into bed exhausted and determined to take the edge off, the same thought always stops you cold.

You probably shouldn’t, right?

Yoongi never said you couldn’t take matters into your own hands, but the idea has rooted itself deep anyway, completely out of nowhere. As if by touching yourself, you’d be stepping out of line. Like you’re meant to wait, to ask, to hear it from him first. 

Because he’s your dom now. 

The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine, equal parts thrilling and nerve-wracking, and suddenly the idea of giving yourself relief feels cheap compared to what he could do to you. 

So, needless to say, you want to talk to him about it. You just don’t have time, and, more importantly, you don’t know how.

This kind of arrangement requires a lot of talking shit to death. He warned you. So maybe that’s what’s making you hesitate now—the fact that the talking hasn’t happened yet, because the ball is in your court.

Historically, neither of you have ever been very big on feelings talk. Oddly enough, that’s part of what’s made you work so well as best friends. You both know how to read between the lines. The conversation you had at the restaurant was, by far, the longest you’ve ever spent talking about anything emotional. Even coming out to each other required fewer words to be exchanged.

But if talking is suddenly a prerequisite to sex, then you’re going to have to catch up with what Yoongi has apparently had years to learn. And this week, your lesson is making you realize just how bad you are at asking for what you want out loud.

Out of the two of you, Yoongi has always been the direct one. The one who goes for what he wants—fuck the fear, fuck the embarrassment, fuck the consequences. Which, you guess, is probably why he’s so well-suited for this sort of thing—and why you, up until last week, had never had an orgasm that wasn’t self-made. 

And likely never will again, if you keep chickening out.

Come Friday evening, the case everyone has been killing themselves over is finally done, and you should be relieved. 

Nothing is stopping you from getting home at a reasonable time tonight. You can shower, maybe get a full night of sleep before the gala tomorrow night…

Or finally grow a spine.

You think about it seriously while you shut down your computer. Nothing is standing in your way anymore.

Maybe you’re being silly. Yoongi has known you your entire life. Plus, he’s the one who propositioned you in the first place! You have no reason to feel embarrassed by the idea of asking him to… take care of you again, when it was his idea from the start. Knowing him, he probably wouldn’t even make a big deal out of it. He’d just pull you into his lap and—

“Drinks?”

You shake away the remnants of your dirty thoughts and look up to find Namjoon The Paralegal leaning against the edge of your desk, tie already loosened, sleeves pushed up like he’s been waiting all day to stop pretending he cares about professionalism.

You glance at the clock. It’s barely thirty seconds past five. 

“That was fast,” you remark dryly.

“Wouldn’t you rather be drunk than be here?” he quips back with a dimpled smile. “C’mon. We deserve to celebrate making it through this week alive.”

He makes a good point.

The bar is within walking distance, close enough that you don’t have time to analyze why you folded so quickly. (You know why. Chicken.) It’s one of those places that caters to the after-work crowd, the clientele almost solely dressed in rumpled business casual and ordering soju by the bucketful. 

You slide into a booth across from Namjoon, shrugging off your coat, already feeling some of the week’s tension begin to loosen in your shoulders.

By the time you’re one shot in (you don’t want to overdo it) and halfway through your first drink, you’re starting to feel less like a cog in the machine and more like a human again. An indignant, overworked human.

“God,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face, “I don’t think I’ve slept more than four hours a night all week.”

Namjoon blows a raspberry at you, unmoved. “Four is light work. Try two.”

“This isn’t a competition, Kim Namjoon,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I’m just the secretary! I understand why you had to lose sleep all week, but me?”

“You’re the only reason any of us made it through this without committing a felony! Do you know how many times you saved my ass today alone?”

“At least five,” you shoot back.

“Exactly. Minimum five.” He tips his glass toward you in acknowledgment. “You run that office more than any of us do.”

You snort despite yourself. “You’re lucky those were easy saves, by the way,” you say. “I was happy when I had to clean up after you, because everyone else was so much worse. Is not being able to spell a prerequisite for law school? Eddie had me ready to commit a crime every single time he had me proofread for him.”

“I’ll testify in your defense,” Namjoon offers, putting on his best lawyer voice to say, “your honor, wouldn’t anyone be driven to violence when faced with stupidity of this caliber?”

Namjoon has always been your favorite coworker. 

He’s sharp as hell, with the kind of intelligence that honestly kind of intimidated you at first—until you found out how hopelessly clumsy he can be, constantly knocking into things or misplacing something important right after he sets it down. 

Plus, he’s easy to talk to, and, objectively speaking, looking at his face for extended periods of time is hardly a hardship.

As you knock back your drinks, you both pick apart the week together, trading horror stories. The impossible turnaround times, the partners who changed their minds every ten minutes, the client who suddenly proposed “urgent revisions” at 11:58 p.m.—it all spills out in a steady stream of complaints that feel lighter the more you say them out loud.

“And the stupid gala! The flowers!” you add, incredulous even now. “The flowers, Namjoon! I got three separate emails about the shade of white.”

“Ah, they’re not just flowers, though,” he teases, “and not just white, remember?”

“Vendela roses,” you both say at the same time, breaking into giggles at the absurdity of it.

The laughter peters out, and you swirl your drink idly, watching the ice shift.

“I hate this job,” you add after a moment.

“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees. “If money wasn’t a factor, I would quit tomorrow.”

“What would you do instead?” you ask. You’ve never hung out with him like this, outside of the office, and the longer you sit across from him the more interesting he becomes.

“Honestly?” 

You nod.

“I’d still do law,” he says. “Just… not like this.”

“That could mean a lot of things,” you point out. “Enlighten me.”

Namjoon hesitates, clearly a bit self-conscious, but the genuine curiosity painting your features is enough to keep him talking.

“I’d want to work with musicians,” he says. “Contracts, rights, negotiations, all of it. But actually on their side.”

You perk up, immediately hooked. “Oh?”

“The industry’s a mess,” he continues. “Labels take advantage of people all the time, especially younger artists who don’t know what they’re signing. They get locked into these contracts that strip them of ownership, control, sometimes even their own work. It’s legal, technically, but it’s… It’s fucked. It isn’t fair.”

“It’s not,” you agree.

“I’d want to help with that,” he says. “Make sure they actually understand what they’re agreeing to. Protect them from getting screwed over before they even have a chance to build something.”

It’s clear he’s been thinking about this for a while, and the way he talks about it is so familiar. Not just the words, but the conviction behind them. The frustration.

It reminds you of Yoongi.

He gets like that too when the topic comes up. You’ve only heard it in passing over the years—stories here and there, the occasional late-night tangent when he’s had a drink or two too many—but it’s the same core sentiment.

Except Yoongi’s been on the receiving end of the shit deals Namjoon is talking about. 

It’s a big part of why he does what he does now—why he stays behind the scenes, producing instead of performing, writing songs only to hand them off and move on to the next. He used to want more than that, but somewhere along the way, that ambition dulled into something more practical. 

He seems happy now. You’d be able to tell if he wasn’t. But maybe if there were more people like Namjoon in the world, he could be even happier.

“That’s really cool, Joonie,” you offer. “You should do that.”

Namjoon scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah. Maybe in another life.”

“Why not this one?”

“Because this one comes with student loans and rent, and this job pays enough to make that manageable.”

You grin despite yourself because yeah, Namjoon and Yoongi would really get along. Lips loosened from the alcohol, you tell him that.

“You know, I really should introduce you to my roommate.”

“Oh? Planning on setting me up?” Namjoon asks, raising a brow. “Is she hot?”

“He’s a dude,” you say with a smirk.

He shrugs. “Is he hot?” 

You blink, surprised. Of course you’ve unknowingly befriended the one other queer person in the office.

“You tell me,” you say, resting your chin on the heel of your hand. “You’ve definitely seen him before. He’s met me for lunch a couple of times.”

You watch in real time as realization dawns over Namjoon’s face, and his eyes get so big you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stifle a laugh.

“That guy is your roommate?” he asks, whistling lowly. “Shit. He is hot.”

You hum, preferring not to comment. Like “that guy” didn’t set an insanely high standard for all your future orgasms just nights ago.

“So, you aren’t setting me up?” Namjoon asks, pouting a little. “Because if he’s single and into men, I wouldn’t say no, you know.”

Hm. You’re not quite sure how to respond to that.

“He’s…” 

He is technically single, isn’t he? You’re certainly not dating Yoongi, although the fact that you’ve spent the past week trying to figure out the best way to get him to make you cum without outright asking could pose an issue, re: his dating life. What if Namjoon is his soulmate, written in the stars and shit? Are you really willing to stand in the way of that to secure more orgasms for yourself?

“It’s complicated,” you settle on. Selfishly.

“Bummer.”

“Sorry.”

Namjoon waves a hand. “I was just fucking around, anyway. Honestly, up until two minutes ago, I thought you were dating him.”

You freeze, nervous laughter bubbling up your throat. “What?!”

“Meeting you for lunch is a very boyfriend-like activity!”

“No it isn’t!” you protest, cheeks hot. “Yoongi and I are friends. We’ve known each other since we were still in diapers. Dating him would be like…”

“Dating your brother?” Namjoon supplies, extremely unhelpful.

You grimace. “No,” you say firmly. “Definitely not that.”

“Jeez, touchy.”

“Sorry,” you huff, rubbing at your temples. “It’s just weird to think about, is what I mean. We’re close, but it’s always been platonic, you know?”

Up until about a week ago, you think. But Namjoon doesn’t need to know that.

“I get it,” Namjoon says. “Forget I said anything.”

You let out a relieved breath. You’re the one who brought Yoongi up in the first place, but this is definitely not where you thought it would go, so you take the out thankfully. 

You’ve never been so eager to keep talking about work.

You and Namjoon spend the next hour sipping on waters as you complain about the gala. By the time you walk back to the office parking lot, you’re definitely sober enough to make it home safely, but the weirdness from before still lingers.

There’s no shot in hell that you’re going through with talking to Yoongi tonight, that much is clear. Not with the idea that people automatically think you’re dating him when you walk down the street together fresh in your brain.

When you begged the universe for a solution to your rampant horniness, this is not what you had in mind at all.

Instead, when you finally make it back to the apartment, you make a point to tiptoe past Yoongi’s door so you don’t wake him. You peel off your work clothes, put on your comfiest pajamas, and slip into bed just to lay wide awake as anxiety chews at your insides.

You’ll talk to him soon. You will. You have to, you realize, your heart skipping in your chest.

Fuck. This is probably the only time in history that Yoongi being your permanent plus-one has bitten you in the ass.

He’s your date tomorrow night.

୨ৎ

You stare at yourself in the mirror, hands braced on the edge of your dresser like you’re about to throw up.

This is stupid.

You’ve been to this thing every year since you started at the firm, and you’ve never felt this nervous about it before. It usually consists of overpriced alcohol, stiff conversations, and a handful of coworkers you actually like enough to make the night tolerable—certainly nothing to lose your lunch over. 

You press your lips together, irritated with yourself.

Yoongi has always been your date to shit like this. That’s not new, either. It’s just easier to bring him than field questions about why you showed up alone, and he’s always been more than willing to go anywhere that involves free food and an open bar. For you, at least.

Nothing has changed. 

Except, of course, everything.

You take a deep breath and stand up straight, glancing over at the dress draped over the edge of your bed.

Maybe that’s why you feel sick.

You don’t normally buy things like this. You’re a clearance rack, “good enough is good enough” kind of person. Every single pair of tights you own has a run in the thigh. In fact, 99% of your closet is made up of things you’ve owned for years, pieces that have been worn soft at the seams from use.

This is brand new, and probably the most expensive item of clothing you’ve ever owned by a mile. You justified the purchase because again, this gala happens every fucking year, and you were starting to get sick of showing up underdressed compared to everyone else.

You slip it on and gaze at your reflection as you hold it to your chest. 

For a second, you don’t recognize yourself. Not because you look wildly different, or unlike you, but because you look…

The black fabric hugs your body like it knows exactly where to linger, cinched at your waist just enough to make the curve of it obvious, gliding over your hips before falling clean down your legs. The neckline dips lower than anything you’d usually dare, a little indulgent, a little out of your comfort zone, but not in a bad way.

You don’t think you’ve ever worn something that felt like it was made with you in mind, instead of something you had to make work. 

You really like it.

But as soon as you reach back to grab the zipper, you run into a problem.

Fuck! No, no, no, you were doing so well!

“Come on,” you mutter under your breath, craning your arm at an angle that’s definitely going to hurt later. You twist, fingers grappling uselessly for leverage. 

You can get it halfway up, maybe a little more if you strain, but definitely not all the way.

You stare at yourself in the mirror for a long, stubborn second.

Your options are clear. You could wrestle with it for the next ten minutes and risk injuring yourself. Or worse, risk breaking it entirely, effectively wasting all the hard-earned money you spent on it. Or…

You close your eyes.

“Yoongi?” you call, raising your voice just enough to carry through the apartment.

Through the wall, you immediately hear his muffled “yeah?” in response.

“Can you… help me with something?”

“Yeah,” he calls back. “One sec.”

You open your eyes and stare at your reflection again, resisting the urge to immediately start fixing things that don’t need fixing.Your makeup turned out better than usual. Not perfect, but good enough that you didn’t immediately wash it off and give up. Your hair is behaving. Why do you suddenly have the urge to preen?

Get it together, you think. It’s just Yoongi.

The door clicks open behind you, and you whirl around to face the door instantly, pretending like you weren’t being the most vain person on the planet, and—

Oh.

Oh, that’s… not fucking fair.

You’ve seen Yoongi dressed up before, plenty of times. High school graduation, college graduation, his first interview for a job that actually mattered to him. Just months ago you went to the wedding of a mutual friend with him, stayed for the ceremony and dipped before the cake was cut. 

But he was wearing a t-shirt beneath a blazer that time, and even so, you hadn’t been paying attention yet.

You’re certainly paying attention now.

His hair is styled, pushed mostly out of his face save for a few strands that hang to artfully frame his forehead. The button-up he’s wearing is crisp white, fitted just enough through his shoulders and chest to hint at what’s underneath without trying too hard about it. And the slacks—fuck—the slacks are almost worse, tailored close through his thighs without looking restrictive. His undone tie, a delicate houndstooth print, hangs loose around his neck.

Even unfinished, he just… inexplicably looks like he belongs in a room full of people with money and power and things to prove. Like he can command any room he walks into, including your bedroom.

You catch yourself and force your focus back to his face, but once you get there, whatever words you were trying to come up with die pitifully in your throat.

Because he’s looking right back.

His gaze drags from your face down the line of your body, slow enough that you feel it like a touch. Like he’s mapping out all the places he wants to explore, if you’ll let him. It’s pathetic how desperately you want to let him.

He seems to catch himself. When he looks back up, you both freeze, and then, almost in sync, you look away.

“Um,” you say, eloquent as ever, twisting a little and gesturing behind you. “Can you—I can’t—the zipper.”

Smooth. Really smooth.

He huffs a quiet, almost amused breath and steps closer. “Yeah. Turn around.”

You do, grateful for the excuse to face away from him. Right then, your stupid horny brain decides it’s the perfect time to remind you that if you leaned back even slightly, you’d be pressed right up against him. His chest to your back, his crotch against your ass.

You don’t move a fucking inch. 

His knuckles graze as he drags the zipper up slowly, brushing against bare skin inch by inch, each small touch sending a sharp, electric ripple up your spine. By the time the zipper reaches the top, your shoulders are tight, your breath shallow, your pulse loud in your ears.

“Done,” he says softly.

You swallow thickly. “Thanks.”

For some reason, neither of you moves. It almost feels like something is about to happen. Like if you turned your head just a little, if you leaned back even an inch, he’d meet you there. Like his hand might slide from the zipper to your waist, pull you in. Like you could ask, actually get the words out this time, and he wouldn’t hesitate to—

Your phone blares to life from your dresser, the alarm you set earlier cutting through the room like a knife. The moment snaps instantly.

“Oh, shit,” you squeak, scrambling to grab your phone and silencing it. “That’s—we should probably—”

“Go,” Yoongi finishes for you, significantly less frazzled.

“Yeah.”

You hurriedly set your phone back down and reach for your shoes. The heels are new, too, and a little higher than what you usually go for. You sit on the edge of your bed, slipping one on, then the other, adjusting the straps at your ankles carefully.

You push yourself to stand, wobble for half a second as you find your balance, and then straighten. When you finally glance up, Yoongi is in the middle of tying his tie.

You watch his ring-clad fingers move with rapt attention, the way they skillfully loop and pull the fabric through until the knot is at his throat.

Don’t, you think to yourself. Do! Not! Go! There!

You turn to grab your clutch off the dresser, suddenly very interested in making sure you have everything you need. Lip gloss. Keys. Cash, just in case. 

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, forcing something light into your voice. “As I’ll ever be.”

୨ৎ

The hotel ballroom is already full by the time you and Yoongi step inside. Everything gleams—polished marble floors, golden light spilling from chandeliers, tables dressed in pristine linens with those stupidly specific Vendela roses arranged just so. Waiters weave through the crowd with trays balanced expertly, offering drinks and bite-sized appetizers that no one seems to actually eat.

Yoongi’s hand settles at the small of your back as he guides you further in, a subtle touch that does absolutely nothing to calm your buzzing nerves. If anything, it makes it worse—heightens your awareness of him at your side.

“Fancy,” he says, waggling his brows.

“Expensive,” you correct under your breath.

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes sweeping over the crowd until he clocks the open bar. “You want?” he asks, tilting his head toward the sea of people lining up for free alcohol.

You nod gratefully. “Please.”

“I’ll be back.”

You watch as he disappears into the cluster of bodies, leaving you to fend for yourself for a few minutes.

Not that it matters. No one is sparing you a passing glance, anyway. Partners, associates, people you’ve spent the past week running yourself ragged for. A few of them glance your way, but it’s polite recognition, nothing more. Because you’re the secretary.

Which is fine. You’re only here because you have to be. You don’t want to talk to anyone you work with except—

“Hey!”

You turn your head at the sound of your name, spotting Namjoon weaving his way toward you with a drink already in hand. Relief floods through you at the sight of him and his predictably crooked tie.

“You made it! I was starting to think you were going to bail.”

“Tempting,” you admit. “But I did all the work for this thing. I deserve to at least drink on the company’s dime.”

Namjoon grins, raising his glass in agreement. “Exactly. That’s the only reason I’m here, honestly. Free alcohol and the chance to judge everyone in expensive clothing.”

“You’ve been doing that all night?”

“Religiously,” he says. “You clean up nice, by the way,” he adds, giving you a once-over that’s appreciative but not invasive. “Almost didn’t recognize you without a stack of files in your hands.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “Thank you,” you say. “Are you here with anyone?”

“Nah,” he says. “Didn’t feel right to drag anyone into this. Figured I’d just float around, make sure I’m seen, then disappear before anyone important notices me.”

“Smart.”

He tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “What about you?” he asks. “You here alone?”

As if on cue, Yoongi appears at your side and hands you your drink. 

You take it with a quiet thanks, watching his throat work as he takes a sip of his whiskey sour.

Ugh, focus!

“Yoongi,” you say, clearing your throat and forcing yourself into something that resembles composure. “This is Namjoon, one of the paralegals at the firm.”

“Kim Namjoon,” he says, straightening and offering his hand.

Yoongi takes it without hesitation. “Min Yoongi.”

“Nice to meet you, man. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Namjoon says, his eyes flicking conspiratorially to yours for half a second. You have to resist the urge to reach out and strangle him with his crooked tie.

“Oh?” Yoongi asks, turning to you with a raised brow. “Good things?”

You’re in hell. Kim Namjoon is a traitorous bastard who thinks he knows everything, when really he knows nothing.

“Horrible things,” you reply flatly. “I was actually just asking him if he’s in the market for a roommate.”

Yoongi laughs. “Good luck,” he says, eyeing Namjoon. “Can you cook?”

“If instant ramyeon counts.”

Yoongi sighs, deeply offended. “You’ll both be dead within a week,” he says matter-of-factly.

You take a long sip of your drink, because clearly you’re going to need it. 

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, I’d be lost without you,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Are we gonna find somewhere to people-watch, or do you wanna swing your dick around a little more?”

“I don’t know,” Yoongi says, sucking his teeth. “This dick swinging business is pretty fun, if you ask me.”

“Don’t quit your day job,” you shoot back.

Namjoon laughs, clearly amused by the back-and-forth that’s become second nature to you and Yoongi over the years. 

“I know a spot,” he cuts in. “I’ve been dodging people all night. C’mon. You’re welcome to keep swinging dick when we get there.”

Namjoon leads you both toward the far side of the room, where the lighting dips just a little lower and the noise softens. There’s a stretch of floor tucked beside a structural column, dotted with a few small cocktail tables that no one seems particularly interested in claiming.

From here, you get a clear view of the room without actually being in it—like watching a performance from backstage.

Perfect.

“Oh, this is good,” you murmur approvingly, already claiming a spot and setting your clutch down on one of the tables.

“Told you,” Namjoon says as he and Yoongi sit on either side of you, pleased with himself.

Yoongi hums in agreement beside you, posture noticeably loosening now that you’re out of the main current of people.

“What do you do, Yoongi?” Namjoon asks, breaking the ice.

“I work in music,” Yoongi answers.

Namjoon’s eyes light up with recognition. “Ah, so that’s why you were saying we’d get along last night,” he says to you.

“Uh-huh.” Yoongi immediately looks confused, so you explain. “Joonie is going to defend musicians to keep them from getting taken advantage of.”

“Ah,” Namjoon says sheepishly, waving his free hand so he doesn’t slosh his drink. “I wouldn’t say I’m ‘going to.’ I want to, one day.”

Yoongi straightens in your periphery, eyes lighting up on Namjoon with interest that hadn’t been there before.

“Yeah?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “What kind of stuff? Contracts? Ownership rights?”

“Yeah, exactly,” Namjoon says. “Artist contracts, licensing, making sure they actually understand what they’re signing before they get locked into something awful.”

Yoongi lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “I wish more people cared about that shit. Kids are way too excited by the idea of a record deal these days, they don’t think to stop and read the fine print.”

Namjoon perks up. “That’s what I’m saying! Half the time it’s not even that the deals are hidden, it’s that people don’t have anyone on their side explaining what they mean. They just trust the wrong people and—boom. They’re stuck.”

“Mm,” Yoongi hums, his gaze dropping briefly. “Happens more than it should.”

“That’s exactly why I want to get into it,” Namjoon says. “People shouldn’t have to learn the hard way.”

Yoongi’s mouth quirks faintly. “If you actually do it, I think the whole industry would collapse.” He meets Namjoon’s eyes again. “Which, for the record, I’m all for.”

Namjoon grins, dimples at full force. “Gotta burn it down to build something better, right?”

“Damn straight.”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Yoongi take to someone this quickly.

There’s something easy about the way they fall into it—no awkward posturing, no one trying to one-up the other. Just two people who have very clearly spent a long time thinking about the same broken system from opposite sides, meeting somewhere in the middle and immediately finding common ground. 

Yoongi’s a little more blunt about it, a little rougher around the edges, but Namjoon matches him point for point, thoughtful where Yoongi is sharp, filling in the gaps without smoothing anything over.

You called it, but still, it’s… kind of fascinating to watch.

You grin into your drink, warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“Look at you two,” you coo, glancing between them. “Bonding over your shared hatred of capitalism. It’s beautiful.”

“Not just capitalism,” Namjoon corrects, lifting a finger. “Corruption. Exploitation. Systems designed to benefit the few at the expense of the many—”

“You sound like you’re about to start a podcast,” you cut in, amused.

Namjoon takes it in stride. “I know you mean that as an insult,” he starts, waggling his brows as he gestures between Yoongi and himself, “but tell me you wouldn’t listen to an hour and a half of these dulcet tones.”

“Can I leave hate comments?” you ask sweetly.

The three of you lapse into a comfortable rhythm after that—pointing out people, making up stories, occasionally dipping into real ones when you actually know something about whoever you’re watching.

At some point, Yoongi gets up to freshen all of your drinks, and when he gets back, Namjoon points subtly toward a man across the room, currently holding court with a group of very serious-looking clients. 

“That’s the ‘pls fix’ guy,” he murmurs to you, taking the glass Yoongi offers him with a grateful nod. 

“No way,” you say, leaning slightly to get a better look.

“The one and only.”

Yoongi follows your line of sight as he sits back down, his arm stretching over the back of your chair. “The what guy?”

“He sent Namjoon a draft earlier this week for the huge merger that just wrapped up,” you explain, lowering your voice. “And it was full of errors. Like, really bad. Plus, he was supposed to have it done for our client, like, days prior. He was single-handedly holding up the whole thing. So, he asked Joon to…”

“‘pls fix,’” Namjoon finishes, pained.

Yoongi huffs into his drink. “I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart.”

“I wish,” Namjoon says. “I have no idea how he made it through law school, honestly. Dude’s an idiot. I fantasize about punching him at least once a day, but I’d definitely get fired, and anyway, I’m a pacifist.”

“Pacifist, smash-a-fist,” you say, delighted by your accidental pun. “I can’t wait for the day you finally snap. He’s begging for it, Joon.”

Yoongi hums, visibly sizing the guy up. “I could probably take him,” he says simply.

“In a fight?” Namjoon asks.

“In a spelling bee.”

You laugh, delighted. “A fight, too! Yoongi can be your backup, for sure! He’s a member at some fancy boxing gym in Gangnam.”

“Hot,” Namjoon says.

“He also does pilates,” you add with a snort.

“Hey, don’t knock the pilates,” Yoongi says, nudging your shoulder.

“No, no, I’m not. It’s a big step up from what you used to do, which was absolutely nothing,” you tease. “I’m very proud of your fitness journey.”

“If it makes him strong enough to take down our gym rat coworkers, I’m not judging,” Namjoon says, discreetly pointing into the crowd again, this time to someone different. “After you’re done with ‘pls fix,’ I vote that he’s next.”

You follow the invisible line drawn by his finger and immediately groan. “Oh my god, not him.”

The guy in question is impossible to miss, broad shoulders straining against a suit that looks a size too tight. He’s just like all your other coworkers—an egotistical, hot-headed law bro. Except he’s particularly annoying, because he’s also obsessed with fitness.

“You know, he cornered me in the break room once. Tried to explain protein macros to me while I was heating up a Lean Cuisine.”

Namjoon snorts. “Did you learn anything?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I learned I should start eating lunch in my car.”

“Jesus,” Yoongi mutters, eyes scanning the room again. “How do you deal with these people every day?”

“I don’t,” you say. “I dissociate and wait for five o’clock.”

Namjoon nods solemnly. “Same.”

“Kim!”

The voice cuts through the pocket of peace the three of you have built like a whip crack, and Namjoon’s spine instantly goes rigid.

“Uh-ooooh,” you sing-song. “Dissociation time is over.”

“No,” he mutters under his breath. “No, no, no—”

You follow his gaze just in time to see one of the senior partners making a beeline straight toward him, expression already locked into something expectant.

“Found you,” the partner says, clapping a hand onto Namjoon’s shoulder like he’s just been rescued instead of captured. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Namjoon pastes on a polite smile so fast it’s almost impressive. “You found me!”

“We need you,” the partner continues, already steering him away. “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Namjoon looks back at you over his shoulder, eyes wide and pleading.

“Damn,” you murmur into your glass, watching him go with zero intent to save him. “Thought he was gonna make it.”

“Poor bastard,” Yoongi agrees.

“Moment of silence,” you say, lifting your drink slightly.

“Moment of silence.”

You both take a sip, watching as Namjoon disappears into the crowd.

“He’s cool,” Yoongi says after the moment ends, turning to you. “I’m glad I got to meet him.”

“Yeah,” you say, lips upturned. “I knew you would like him.”

As soon as you say it, though, your mind drifts back to the memory of the bar last night. 

“You know,” you add, the words slipping out before you can properly filter them, “when I told him that, he assumed I was trying to set the two of you up.”

Yoongi’s brows lift slightly, more thoughtful than surprised. “Huh.” 

You don’t know what you were expecting. 

A scoff, maybe. Immediate dismissal. Something definitive you could grab onto and file away neatly.

Not that, though. Not something so open-ended. Huh? That’s all he has to say?

You turn your head toward him fully now.

“What,” you press, studying his face for any hint of something you don’t want to find, “is he your type or something?”

“I told you, I don’t really have a type,” Yoongi says into his glass.

Hm. You remember. 

It would be a satisfying answer, if you didn’t also remember all of the men he’s brought home over the years.

“You say that,” you counter, stubbornly picking at the thread even though some part of you is whispering to drop it, “but all of the guys you’ve dated kinda look like him, now that I think about it.”

Tall, jacked, masculine. Varying in personality, sure, but all the more reason for Namjoon to fall into the category. He contains multitudes.

Yoongi finally turns his head to you, raising an amused eyebrow. “You jealous or something?”

Shit!

You successfully suppress your immediate urge to sputter, forcing your features to remain in what you hope is a calm expression. 

“No,” you say, steady. “Why would I be jealous?”

You lift your glass, using the motion as cover, taking a longer sip than necessary just to buy yourself a second.

“I’m just wondering,” you continue, setting the glass down carefully, “if I should’ve set you up, since he’s so obviously your type and all.”

There. 

That sounds reasonable, right?

Yoongi’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, you’re jealous as hell,” he says. “Being really cute about it, too.”

Your cheeks go hot, and you scowl. “Fuck off.”

Yoongi’s posture changes—not bigger, not aggressive, just… more present. Like something in him just clicked into place, attention sharpening entirely on you.

“Ooh, less cute,” he murmurs, interest flickering in his eyes as he turns fully toward you now. Then, softer, like it’s just for you, “watch yourself.”

Oh.

It’s not a joke. You can tell it isn’t.

The warning settles low in your stomach, sending a strange mix of heat and defiance curling through you.

You should probably back off and remember where you are. Remember that this isn’t the time or the place. Remember that Yoongi is not above teaching you a lesson right here if he has to, especially since you personally ticked literal boxes that gave him express permission to do so.

But you don’t. 

You want to poke. To test. To see where the edges are. After a week of nothing, of silence and restraint and too much thinking, you want to see what happens if you push. 

“Or what?” you challenge, lifting your chin just slightly.

Yoongi holds your gaze. “You really think I don’t know what you’re doing?” 

”I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Really,” he says flatly.

“Really.”

“So you’re not giving me shit on purpose just to see what I’ll do about it?”

As always, he sees right through you. 

Your shoulders drop just a fraction, the fight leaking out of you as quickly as it flared up. You’re not good at this, and you don’t know why you’re pretending to be.

“I just want your attention,” you admit, embarrassed at how easily he called you out. 

“You have it, baby.” 

Your breath catches at the pet name, a ripple of sensation running down your spine and settling heavy between your thighs. 

“You could’ve had it days ago, too,” he adds pointedly. “It’s not like I live far.”

If he only knew how many times you paused outside of his door on your way to your own, weighing the pros and cons of knocking until your cowardice won out.

“I was busy,” you say, lips pushing into a small pout, clinging to the safest excuse you have.

“I know,” he says. There’s something soft threaded through it, something that wraps around the words instead of sharpening them. “My girl’s been working so hard, huh?”

His girl. Your thighs press together under the table. Is that what you are now? It must be, if you’re this attuned to just a simple change in his voice.

“Mhm,” you say, because anything more coherent feels out of reach.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Been thinking about me?”

You have. Constantly.

At work, at home, in the shower, lying in bed staring at the ceiling with your mind running in circles you couldn’t shut off.

You wish you had the strength not to give him the satisfaction so easily. To deflect, tease, give him something less than the truth so you can keep even a shred of control.

“Yes,” you breathe instead. “When I had time.”

“What about me?”

Motherfucker.

You huff and cross your arms, coming back to yourself momentarily. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

It’s weak. You know it is.

He knows it, too.

“S’why I asked,” he says, a hint of amusement threading through his voice. “You gonna tell me or what?”

“Or what,” you shoot back. “We’re literally surrounded by everyone I work with right now.”

“So?” Yoongi says. “Nobody’s paying attention to us.” He leans in just enough that you can feel the heat of him, the subtle encroachment into your space. “And even if they were, you like that shit, don’t you?”

Your jaw might as well be on the floor. 

Yoongi grins.

“Relax,” he says. “It’s not like I’m gonna stick my hand up your dress right here. As much as I may want to.”

You inhale sharply, your entire body lighting up at the image before you can stop it.

“I just wanna know what you thought about.”

“A lot of things,” you deflect weakly. “I don’t know.”

He clicks his tongue. “Not good enough,” he admonishes. “C’mon, I know you can do better than that.”

Fuck. He isn’t going to let this go, isn’t he?

You take a deep breath, searching your brain for something you can say that will satisfy him without completely exposing how desperate you’ve been.

“I thought about last time,” you admit shakily. “The way it felt.”

“Yeah?” he prompts.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“What else?”

You make a frustrated sound, his name slipping out like a plea before you can stop it. He doesn’t budge.

“Nuh-uh. You wanna cum tonight?”

The words hit like a switch flipping. Everything in your body reacts—heat flaring, tension snapping tight, that aching, insistent want roaring.

Suddenly, the stakes feel very clear. You’re in it now.

You can keep dodging, or you can be honest. And the thought of walking away from this—of going home still wound up, still aching, still stuck in your own head—

Yeah, fuck that.

“Fuck,” you hiss under your breath, darting a quick glance around you even though he’s right—no one’s paying attention. “Okay, fine. You win.”

Yoongi hums and leans back, crossing his arms over his chest as if to say, ‘I’m waiting.’

The words start spilling out faster than you can filter them, like once the dam breaks, there’s no stopping it.

“I thought about you fingering me without anything in the way,” you rush out. “I thought about you making me cum so many times I lose count. I thought about you putting me on my knees and using my mouth and then not letting me cum at all, but for the record, I think I’d kill you if you did that tonight. I thought about pretty much everything I said yes to on your list,” you finish, words tumbling over each other now, frustration bleeding through. “And I’m fucking pissed that we’re sitting here talking about it—that you’re making me talk about it—instead of actually doing it.”

Yoongi lets the silence linger long enough to make you squirm, and then lets out a low whistle.

“Damn.”

Your face burns instantly. “Don’t,” you mutter, mortified.

“Don’t what?” he asks innocently.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not.”

You shoot him a look.

“I’m not!” he insists, a grin tugging at his mouth. “That was hot as fuck. You’re better at this than you think.”

You scoff. “Okay, now you’re really making fun of me.”

He leans in close enough that his breath ghosts over your skin. “Baby,” he tells you, voice rough, “I’m so fucking hard right now.”

Oh shit!

Your entire body reacts. A sharp inhale, your stomach tightening, heat pooling low and immediate.

“O-oh…”

The tip of his nose brushes your neck, light, deliberate, and you don’t even move to stop him. “Did you touch yourself?”

You barely register the question. You make a small, confused sound, your eyes fluttering shut as his proximity overwhelms your senses.

“I’m asking,” he rasps, lips just barely grazing your skin, “if you played with that wet cunt while you were thinking about all of that.”

Fuck.

“N-no,” you stammer. “I didn’t, uh… I haven’t…”

“No?” he murmurs, lips pressing more firmly to your neck now, slow, distracting. “Why not? Knew it wouldn’t feel as good without me?”

“That, ah—” Your breath catches, a soft, traitorous sound slipping out of you. Jesus. Get it together. “That, and I didn’t… know if I was allowed.”

Your words hang in the air, mortifying in how revealing they are, and suddenly everything stops. Yoongi stills completely.

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, brows drawing together.

“You didn’t touch yourself…” he repeats slowly, like he’s making sure he heard you right, “…because you thought you needed my permission?”

“…Yeah?” you say hesitantly. You feel a little silly, now that you’ve said it out loud.

He huffs a laugh, his head dropping forward until his forehead rests against your bare shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he exhales a quiet “fuck.”

Oh god. He’s laughing at you?

“Look, I know,” you rush, face so hot now you’re worried it’s going to explode. “It was stupid, okay?”

You feel the movement of his head as he shakes it against your shoulder, and then he lifts it again, eyes locking onto yours. “We need to go home.”

You blink.

“Huh?”

“We need to go home,” he repeats, clearer this time, each word deliberate, “before I stop pretending to care we’re surrounded by your coworkers and fuck you right here.”

Your breath catches.

“Understand?”

Oh.

Oh.

You swallow hard. “Right now?”

“Is that a problem?”

You shake your head quickly

“Good. Then yeah, right now. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice.

୨ৎ

It’s a miracle that either of you make it into the building.

The door to your shared apartment barely has a chance to shut before he has you pressed against it, the solid wood thudding at your back as his mouth crashes into yours. It’s messy and breathless, the kind of kiss that steals the air right out of your lungs, and far from the first you’ve shared since you left the stupid gala. 

You fumble blindly at the wall for balance as your heel catches on the rug, and with a frustrated little sound you kick both shoes off, letting them scatter somewhere behind you.

You don’t care.

You don’t care about anything except the way his hands slide down to your ass, gripping, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re such a good girl, fuck,” he breathes against your lips, voice rough. “Can’t believe you waited. So fuckin’ sweet.”

A soft, helpless sound slips out of you, your body reacting instantly, arching into him without permission.

“Can’t wait anymore,” you gasp, your head tipping back as his mouth breaks away from yours and moves to your neck. His teeth scrape lightly over your skin and you shudder. “Please don’t make me wait.”

He chuckles lowly against your neck, and you just barely register that you’re being guided now, maneuvered through the apartment. 

You follow without thinking, your body already tuned to him, responding automatically.

By the time you hit his bedroom door, you’re dizzy from the way he’s been kissing you. His hand fumbles behind you for the knob, twisting it open while his mouth never leaves your skin, like he can’t stand the idea of even a second of distance.

The door swings open, and you stumble inside.

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

God, can he get on with it already?

“I don’t know what I want,” you whine, the frustration bleeding through.

Every thought you’ve had this week, every half-finished fantasy, every what-if you didn’t let yourself follow through on—they’re all crashing together now, stacking and overlapping until you can’t separate one from the other.

You want his hands. His mouth. His voice in your ear. You want to be taken apart slowly and all at once. You want to cum until you can’t think.

How the fuck are you meant to narrow that down into something coherent?

Yoongi hums and untangles his body from yours. You whine at the sudden distance, the loss of his hands on you, but watch as he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread wide like a king.

Fuck.

With a crooked finger he beckons you forward, and you go without a second thought, fitting yourself to stand between his thighs.

Now that you’re pressed against him again, he takes the opportunity to let his hands roam over your body, starting from your breasts and sliding all the way down to your hips. You can see how hard he is through his slacks. 

“This fucking dress,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You bite your lip. “You like it?”

“You look beautiful,” he says, meeting your eyes. You aren’t expecting the honesty of it, to believe him so easily. 

Your lips part. Damn.  

“Thank you,” you murmur shyly.

Yoongi gazes up at you still, his expression devastatingly open. “Will you let me take it off of you?” he asks.

There’s something so hot about him asking permission like that, even though he’s the one with all the power here. 

“Yes,” you breathe, earning a gentle squeeze at your hip.

“Turn around, baby.”

You do, your pulse jumping as you present your back to him. His fingers find your zipper just like they did earlier in the night, but this time he’s dragging it down, unwrapping you. The dress loosens, then slips, fabric gliding over your skin until it pools at your feet in a dark heap. Cool air kisses your bare back, making you shiver.

Behind you, Yoongi groans under his breath. “Fuck…”

The sound alone makes your stomach flip.

His hands come to your ass immediately, big and warm, squeezing like he’s been waiting all night to get his hands on you like this, properly, skin to skin. You gasp, instinctively pushing back into his touch.

And then—

Smack!

The sting blooms instantly, heat radiating across your ass as a startled gasp tears from your throat.

“Oh!”

“Come back,” he orders, audibly less patient now. 

You spin around obediently, and he pats his thigh.

“Sit.”

You step forward, positioning yourself carefully into his lap. You’re keenly aware of how similar this is to last time, but the second you settle over him, it also feels so different.

Because this time, you’re damn near naked. 

Meanwhile, he’s still fully dressed, crisp and controlled. His clothes are rough against your bare skin, and there’s an unmistakable hardness pressed right between your thighs. Straddling him like this leaves you completely vulnerable, your bare tits level with his face.

You wonder if it’s intentional.

His tongue drags over his lower lip. “So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss between your breasts. “You remember your safewords?”

You force yourself to focus, to pull the words from memory even as your body keeps trying to drag you back under.

“Green means I want more,” you recite, voice a little shaky. “Yellow means slow down. Red means stop.”

“That’s my good girl,” he says, big palms sliding up your ribs and settling just beneath your chest, thumbs brushing appreciatively over the undersides of your breasts. “I’m gonna give you what you want, baby. Gonna make you cum so hard you cry for me again, yeah?”

You whine. “Please. Need it.”

He seems to enjoy how shameless you’re being, if his responding growl is anything to go by. “You’ll get it,” he says, palming your tits fully now. “But not yet. You’re gonna wait.”

Not yet? You immediately snap out of your daze. 

“What the fuck? Why not?” you demand.

He chuckles, eyes glinting as he tongues the inside of his cheek. “That’s why,” he says, pinching your nipples hard enough that you cry out. “Your bratty fucking mouth. Think I forgot?”

Your protest slips out of you before you can stop it, our brows pulling together as you look at him. “But you just said I was good!”

“And you are,” he says easily. “But you’ve also been testing the fuck out of me all night, and I can’t let that slide.”

You pout, because of course you do, your body still buzzing, still needy, still unwilling to accept anything that isn’t immediate gratification.

“Can’t you, just this once?” you try, tilting your head just slightly, softening your voice without even realizing it, like that might work on him.

It doesn’t.

“It’s cute that you think this is negotiable,” he says with a smirk.

Maybe that should be the end of it. He’s the one in control here. But you can’t accept it.

You don’t think.

You just act.

“But I thought you wanted to fuck me,” you say, your hand snaking between your bodies to squeeze his length through his slacks. “I want it, too.”

He hisses through his teeth, indulging you for a moment, almost like he can’t help it. “Fuck…”

“You’re so big,” you breathe, leaning forward to suck at his jaw. “Definitely gonna make me cry.”

You can tell he didn’t expect this from you, and his responding groan makes you feel powerful, like maybe you do have more control here than you originally thought.

But then he grabs your wrist and pins it behind your back, the motion so fast your breath catches. And then the other wrist follows, as if for good measure.

“Do I need to tie you down?” he growls, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. “Because I will. I’m being fucking nice, letting you cum after all the shit you gave me tonight, but I can stop being nice real quick. I’ll tie you down and spank your ass raw, and then I’ll leave you like that. You want that?”

Your cunt clenches at the image, but you shake your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Say it.”

“N-no! I don’t want that.”

“What do you want, then?”

You swallow hard. “I want to cum.”

“Then shut up and take your punishment like a good girl,” he says. “Look at me.” You open your eyes. “We clear?”

Something in his gaze makes your stomach flip for an entirely different reason than before.

You nod, quick and obedient. You don’t trust your voice, and besides—he told you to shut up.

That seems to satisfy him. He exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as his grip on your wrists loosens.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. His hands gentle as they move to cradle your jaw. “Come here.”

You lean in obediently, he meets you halfway, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that’s slower than before but no less intense. It’s deep and consuming, his tongue sliding against yours possessively. You whimper into it, the sound swallowed by his mouth, your body melting right back into him despite everything.

When you finally pull apart, a thin string of saliva stretches between your mouths for a brief second before snapping.

“If you get close, tell me,” he says.

Your brain lags behind.

Close?

Close to what—?

You don’t get the chance to ask, because the next second, he’s leaning down to pull one of your nipples into the heat of his mouth. You arch into it with a broken sound, your head falling back as your fingers tangle in his hair.

“Oooh, fuck,” you moan.

Yoongi hums around the bud and sucks harder, pulling another louder, more desperate sound from your throat. He pulls back with a soft pop, just long enough to look up at you, eyes dark and knowing.

“Sensitive?” he asks with a smirk.

“Y-yeah…”

“Thought you would be.”

His mouth moves to your other breast, lavishing it with the same treatment—tongue, teeth, suction—while his hand takes over where his mouth just was, fingers pinching and rolling roughly.

You don’t even realize your hips have begun rocking against his lap until his free hand comes down hard on your ass, shocking you into stillness.

“Ah!”

“Don’t fucking move,” he admonishes against your skin, not letting up for a second.

Your breath stutters as his teeth graze your hardened peak before biting. It’s that mix of pleasure-pain that makes you suddenly realize—holy shit!!! You’re about to cum!

Right now. When he hasn’t even touched your pussy.

“Y-yoongi, I—” you gasp out, trembling from your impending release. “I think I—”

He hums in question, and the buzz of it around your nipple only makes matters a million times worse.

“‘M close—!”

He pulls back so fast it makes your head spin.

One second you’re right there, your entire body drawn tight like a wire—and the next, it’s just… gone.

You’re left shaking in his lap, chest heaving, nipples slick and oversensitive where his mouth had been, the ghost of it still there but not enough. The orgasm that had been building recedes just as fast, slipping through your fingers before you can grab onto it. 

Your body feels confused, like it doesn’t understand why it was stopped, why it was denied something it had already started to take.

You suck in a shaky breath, blinking down at him, dazed.

You’d be pissed—you should be pissed—but all you can think about is the fact that he just almost made you cum by sucking on your tits.

Unbidden, your brain supplies the memory of last week, when he asked if you were still okay with him touching you. “How else are you supposed to make me cum?” you’d asked, to which he’d smirked and responded, “you'd be surprised.”

Is that what he meant?

“Color?” he asks now, snapping you out of it.

“Green,” you manage through shuddering breaths.

“Didn’t know you could do that, huh?” he asks, flicking lazily at one of your puffy nipples. Your whole body twitches in response.

You shake your head. Of course you didn’t know. How could you?

“Don’t worry,” he continues smugly, clearly enjoying himself, “we’ll get some proper use out of it at some point.”

Fucking bastard.

Suddenly, your mounting desperation becomes unbearable. 

You can’t believe you’re letting him toy with you like this, letting him dangle the promise of an orgasm right in front of your face, after he so cruelly snatched it away.

“Please,” you whimper. You don’t even know what you’re asking for at this point, not exactly. Just something. Anything.

“Poor thing,” Yoongi coos, prodding your bottom lip with his thumb. “You’re drooling, baby.”

You are?

The realization hits a second too late, heat rushing to your face—but before you can even react, his thumb slips into your mouth.

You suck without thinking, your tongue curling around it, your body responding on instinct more than anything else. You’re still frustrated, but it feels good having something to do, something to focus on.

At the same time, Yoongi’s free hand snakes between your legs. His fingers slide over your clothed slit, pressing just enough to make you gasp around his thumb, your grip tightening on his shoulders as a muffled whimper escapes you.

“From both ends, too,” he muses, watching you with mild interest. You’d be lying if you said the way he’s speaking to you doesn’t turn you on even more—like you’re a toy for him to inspect instead of his best friend. “You wanted my cock, right?”

You nod immediately, eager, the movement a little clumsy with his thumb still in your mouth.

Yoongi hums. “Wonder which hole wants it more.”

His words simultaneously send a pang right to your pussy and cause you to salivate, and you realize you don’t know the answer, either. 

You want to cum so badly you feel like you’ll die, but the thought of him using your mouth…

“Not that it matters what you want,” he continues. Fuck, why is that so hot? “I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson. Besides, you made a fucking mess.”

A mess? 

Your jaw goes slack, lips stilling around his thumb because what?

He glances pointedly down at his lap. You follow his eyes and, oh. You did make a mess. There’s a huge wet patch on the front of his slacks from where you’d been grinding on him.

He lifts his head, his dark eyes meeting your wide ones. Dextrous fingers move to loosen his tie, yanking it harshly. 

“Get up.”

The command snaps you back into motion. You scramble off his lap, legs a little unsteady as you stand, your body still buzzing, still off-balance from everything that’s happened. 

Yoongi immediately spins you around to face away from him. He grabs your arms, hanging limply at your sides, and pulls them until your wrists meet behind your back. You only realize why he’s taken off his tie when you feel the silken material looping around them.

“Since I can’t trust you to keep your hands to yourself,” he mumbles, securing the knot until your arms are bound. He slips a finger beneath the fabric to test the give. “Too tight?”

You wiggle your wrists and flex your fingers, making sure your circulation isn’t cut off. “No,” you breathe.

“Color?” he asks, petting your side soothingly from behind.

“Green.” So fucking green.

“Good. Turn around.”

You do as he says, waiting expectantly for your next instruction, which comes as soon as you finish the first.

“On your knees.”

You lower yourself carefully, mindful of your balance without your hands to steady you, and then you’re right there. Eye level with him.

The outline of his cock beneath his slacks is impossible to ignore from this close, the fabric pulled taut, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Fuck.

Slowly, your gaze lifts. Up his thighs, over the line of his hips, the slight disarray of his shirt where he’s undone a few buttons, the open collar revealing just a hint of skin at his throat.

And then his face, where he’s already looking at you. 

Not just looking—taking you in. His eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate, like he’s committing the sight to memory.

“Pretty slut,” he murmurs, the words forcing the breath from your lungs in a ragged exhale. “Look so good on your knees for me.”

The words tumble from your mouth automatically. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, what?”

Oh.

Uh.

Fuck, you haven’t talked about this. You blink up at him, unsure what he wants you to say.

“Should I, um… Do you want me to call you something different?”

Yoongi’s expression softens just a fraction, something almost fond flickering there as he leans down, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. 

“You can call me whatever you want,” he says gently. “Including my name.”

You lean into it without thinking, chasing the contact. “Is there one that you like the most?” you ask quietly.

“Not really.”

You hum, considering your options.

“Thank you, sir?” you try, glancing up at him through your lashes.

Yoongi gives no reaction beyond his carding his fingers through your hair. 

You try again. “...Thank you, daddy?”

Pause.

The second it leaves your mouth, heat floods your face so fast it’s almost dizzying. 

You can’t even look at him. Your gaze drops immediately, a nervous huff of breath slipping out as you shake your head, half-embarrassed, half-overwhelmed by yourself.

“I think I’ll stick with Yoongi for now, actually,” you blurt out, staring intently at the floor. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, baby,” he says easily. His fingers tilt your chin up just enough that you have to meet his eyes again. “I like the way you say my name.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fuck yes,” he assures you. The hand that’s not in your hair gently nudges your chin up so you’re looking at him again “You good?”

“Uh-huh. Green. Please keep going.”

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate. His fingers immediately tighten at your scalp, and you moan softly at the way he uses it to force you forward until your cheek rests against the front of his slacks.

“Messy girl,” he tuts mockingly. “Feel what you did to me?”

You know he’s not just talking about the wet patch—not when you can feel the solid weight of him beneath it, responsive, reactive.

Because of you.

“Mhm,” you manage, the sound shaky, barely there.

With a hum of approval, he drags your face across the wet spot. It’s humiliating. Dehumanizing, even. You probably shouldn’t like it. But your brain feels distant, fuzzy, your reactions stripped down to something simpler, more instinctive.

Your lips part before you can think better of it, and your tongue follows.

You taste yourself through the fabric, dragging it along the length of him, and his entire body reacts, cock jumping beneath your mouth, straining harder.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You’re so fucking dirty, baby.” Your pulse spikes. “You want my dick that bad?”

You nod as best as you can, already turning your head to press your mouth against him more deliberately, your lips working over the outline through his slacks. You do want it. So much more than you expected. More than makes sense. Last time, you didn’t even let him take your clothes off—and now you’re here, on your knees, bound, wanting this. Needing it.

“Fuck,” he groans, grip tightening as he pulls you back. “Okay, okay. You’ll get it, then.”

Relief hits you in a rush.

You watch, barely breathing, as his hands move to his belt, fingers working quickly now, less composed than before. The buckle clinks softly as he undoes it, then his fly, pushing his slacks and underwear down just enough to free himself—

Oh.

Fuck.

Your mouth waters instantly.

He’s big.

Certainly bigger than anything you’ve taken before, thick and hard and flushed, the tip already slick, a bead of precum catching the light. Your jaw aches just looking at him, a phantom stretch already settling in.

He gives himself a few placating tugs while his free hand slides into your hair again.

“Go on,” he says, roughly yanking you forward. The pleasurable sting in your scalp makes you gasp. “Show me how good you can be.”

He guides you closer until the tip of him is pressed to your parted lips, and your tongue instantly flicks out to taste. You’ve done this before—in fact, it’s probably the only part of this you feel you excel at. 

But it’s different this time.

You’re not doing this out of guilt, or to fluff anyone’s ego. You just want to. You want to make him feel as good as he made you feel last week.

You sit up on your knees a little to take him deeper, pride swelling in your gut at the way he groans in response to you suckling his tip. It’s a little trickier than you’re used to with your hands tied like this, so much so that your fingers flex behind your back, itching to touch—but if anything, it just encourages you to work harder to earn more sounds like that from him.

Your lips stretch around him, saliva building quickly, slicking him as you move, your head bobbing in a slow rhythm that picks up the more comfortable you get.

You glance up at him, and—

Fuck.

The sight hits you harder than anything else so far. Yoongi looks wrecked.

His head is tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat, his lips parted as a breathy “fuuuck” spills out of him. His ringed fingers drag through his hair roughly, messing it up further, his eyes squeezed shut like he can’t even look at you right now.

Like it’s too much.

Encouraged, your mouth opens wider, your jaw stretching as you push past what feels natural, drool spilling freely now, slicking every inch of him as you work him deeper and deeper. It drips down, messy, uncontrolled, pooling at the base, your breathing uneven around him.

You feel it when you hit your limit—that point where your throat tightens, where your body hesitates.

And then you push anyway.

Your throat spasms as you gag around him, the sound muffled, your eyes watering instantly—

“Fuck,” he chokes, your name slipping from his lips in a broken, breathless whimper that sends a jolt straight to your pussy.

You pull back with a wet pop, gasping for air, your chest heaving as you try to recover, and Yoongi lets you for a second. Just long enough for both of you to catch your breath.

“Shit, baby,” he rasps, eyeing you. “Can you take more?”

“I-I think so,” you say.

He pushes your hair out of your face. “Wanna fuck your throat a little.”

You nod eagerly. It’s been a while, but you don’t want to disappoint him when you’ve been doing so good.

“Good girl,” he says, letting you breathe for another moment while he thinks. “There isn’t really any way for you to tap out with your hands tied. I won’t be too rough, but you need to tell me now if you don’t want it.”

You didn’t even think of that. He’s so fucking responsible, and somehow, that makes this even sexier.

“I want it,” you say. You don’t think you’ve ever meant anything more.

Yoongi’s hand tightens slightly in your hair as he eases you forward, guiding you to swallow him down again.

“Relax your throat,” he murmurs, voice rough, breath uneven. 

You’re trying.

You’re really fucking trying.

Your jaw is already aching, stretched wider than it’s used to, lips pulled tight around him as he presses deeper. The blunt head nudges past what feels natural, what feels easy, and your body reacts instantly—your eyes sting, tears spilling over before you can stop them as your gag reflex kicks hard.

Your first instinct is to pull back. To resist. But his voice cuts through it.

“Shh,” he soothes, softer now, his thumb briefly brushing beneath your eye, catching at the tears before returning to your hair. “You’re okay. Breathe through your nose. Don’t fight it.”

You focus on that. On him. On the sound of his voice instead of the way your throat tightens around him.

Your breaths come shallow at first, uneven and panicked, but you force yourself to keep going, to listen. To let your body adjust instead of locking up against it.

And suddenly, the tension eases, just a little. Enough.

“Shit,” he groans, the sound dragged out, wrecked. “There you go. Knew you could take it.”

The praise hits you immediately, your choked moan muffled around his cock, and Yoongi takes that as his cue to start moving.

He’s careful, pulling you back just enough before pushing you forward again even further, gauging every reaction your body gives him.

Your nose brushes against his skin. Then presses. Closer, and closer, and—

“Fuuuuuck.” 

His grip tightens as he pushes you all the way down, your face pressed fully against him, breath stuttering as your throat constricts tight around his length. You gag hard, a broken, helpless sound forcing its way out around him, your eyes squeezing shut as tears spill freely down your cheeks.

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice shaking now. “That’s it.”

He pulls you back before it’s too much, giving you a second to breathe before pushing you down again, a little firmer this time.

The rhythm builds gradually, guided by his hand in your hair. Not rough, not careless—controlled. Intentional. Each thrust measured, watching the way your body reacts, the way your throat tightens and relaxes around him. Drool spills freely now, your chin slick, tears blurring your vision as you let him use you.

“Look at you,” he mutters, half to himself, voice thick with disbelief. “Taking me so well. Fuck, I could—” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, hips stuttering. “Fuckfuckfuck—”

Suddenly, his grip tightens sharply, pulling you off him just as fast as he’d pushed you down.

The loss is disorienting. You’re left gasping, lungs dragging in air like you’ve been underwater too long, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you try to recover, your throat aching, your lips swollen and wet.

For a second, you don’t understand.

Why—?

Yoongi lets out a breathy laugh, almost to himself, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching in his hair.

“Was about to cum,” he explains, shaking his head slightly, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “Too fuckin’ good.”

You blink up at him, still trying to catch your breath.

Isn’t that the point? He didn’t have to stop. You wanted him to.

But he doesn’t give you a chance to say that, carefully hauling you up to your feet. Fucking pilates strength.

He pulls you in to kiss you, and your confusion is quickly forgotten in favor of losing yourself in the intensity of it. His fingers skillfully undo the knot behind your back as he devours your lips, and once your hands are free, he maneuvers your bodies so you’re laying flat on your back on his bed.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs as he climbs over you. “I think you’ve been punished enough, hm?”

You moan eagerly, spreading your legs to accommodate his body between them. 

“You wanna cum?”

“Please,” you sob, the word breaking out of you like it’s been sitting there all night, waiting. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing him, and the movement drags his bare cock against the thin fabric of your soaked panties.

The contact is electric, and both of you gasp at the same time.

“Yoongi, please…”

Yoongi’s eyes squeeze shut as he rocks his hips forward again, slower this time, like he’s letting himself indulge for just a second. His cock slides between your folds through the damp cotton, the friction dragging a broken sound from both of you.

You thought this would be weird. 

You thought there’d be a moment—a hesitation, a line you couldn’t cross. That when it came down to it, something in you would panic, pull back, remind you this is Yoongi, your best friend, the person who’s been constant in your life for as long as you can remember.

But now? Now, with him between your legs, with your body reacting like this, that thought feels distant. Irrelevant. Or maybe—

Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it makes it better. More intense. More dangerous. More right in a way you can’t fully explain.

The sound of Yoongi’s strained voice slices through your thoughts. 

“I’m not fucking you tonight.”

What?

Panic lances through you instantly, the idea of having another orgasm ripped away from you devastating at this point with how worked up you are.

“B-but—”

“Relax,” he soothes. “You’ve been so good for me. You’re gonna cum, baby. I promise.”

How, then?

Yoongi doesn’t give you time to dwell on it. His mouth finds you again—your lips, your jaw, your throat—but this time it doesn’t stop there. It keeps going.

His kisses trail down your neck, across your collarbone, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch before moving on. Lower. His hands follow, sliding over your sides, your waist, guiding you without forcing you, keeping you open beneath him as he works his way down your body.

His lips skim down your stomach, just barely there, enough to make your muscles tense, your hips twitch in anticipation.

“I wanna ruin you first,” he continues, voice steady. “Wanna show you how good it can feel, every way I can think of.”

Your pulse stutters.

“By the time I do fuck you,” he adds, thumb brushing your hip, “you’re not even gonna remember what it felt to be touched by anyone but me.”

Holy fuck.

Your cunt clenches with need, but he’s already a step ahead of you, pulling your panties down your legs and leaving you bare.

“Fuck,” he breathes softly, taking in the sight of you.

You’ve been here before. On your back, legs spread, someone between your thighs.

You know how it usually goes. A little too careful. A little too hesitant. Like they’re checking off boxes. Like they read somewhere what they’re supposed to do, and now they’re doing it.

God, you’ve faked it so many times you don’t even know what it’s supposed to feel like when it’s real. As if you haven’t learned not to underestimate him by now, your body instantly braces for that familiar routine. That polite, distant kind of pleasure you know how to perform around.

Yoongi ruins that expectation immediately. He doesn’t ease in. He doesn’t test the waters. He dives.

His mouth presses against your cunt, open and messy, not missing a single part of you.

“Oh—fuck!” It rips out of you before you can stop it.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight without thinking, and he groans into you like that’s exactly what he wanted. The sound vibrates straight through you, amplifying the sensation by a million. His hands slide under your thighs, pulling you closer, anchoring you in place as his mouth works like he’s starving, almost like this isn’t something he’s doing for you, but something he needs.

There’s no hesitation in it, no second-guessing. No awkward rhythm he’s trying to maintain. He’s devouring you like he can’t get enough. You’re so used to performing, but there’s no room for that. No space to fake anything. He's not even leaving you space to think!

His tongue flicks over your clit before his lips wrap around it and suck, and your whole body jerks.

“Oh my god—”

It’s already too much, and then he does it again. And again. Switching pressure, pace, angle like he’s learning you in real time, adjusting without asking, without needing direction.

Your back arches off the bed, your grip tightening in his hair. “Wait—wait—”

You don’t even know what you’re asking for, because you don’t actually want him to stop. Not when it feels like this.

His hand presses firmly into your hip, holding you down when you try to squirm away from the intensity.

“Stay,” he murmurs against you.

Your body responds instantly, freezing even as your thighs tremble around his head. In reward, he flattens his tongue again, dragging right where you’re most sensitive, and your vision blurs.

“Oh—fuck—” Your voice cracks.

That’s new, too. You don’t sound like this when you fake it.

Your body starts to climb before you’re ready, before you’ve even had time to catch up.

Are you already about to cum? It’s fast. Too fast.

“Yoongi, I—”

You’ve never had to warn someone before, never had to mean it. He groans softly against you, like he can feel it happening, like he knows.

And then he doubles down. His tongue moves faster, sharper, more focused, zeroing in on exactly what’s making you unravel. Your entire body locks up.

“Oh my god—oh my god—”

You’re already there, already tipping over. There’s no buildup you can track, no slow climb you can manage. You’re just gone.

Your orgasm hits hard. Harder than anything you’ve felt before.

Your thighs clamp around his head, your back arching, a broken sound tearing out of your throat as your body shakes. It’s not a pretty moan, not something you can control. 

You’re crying before you even realize it, tears spilling over as the sensation crashes through you, overwhelming and bright and too much.

And he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t pull away like everyone else has when you’ve faked it, doesn’t pat your thigh and call it done.

He stays right there, working you through it, dragging it out until your eyes roll back. Your hands tug at his hair.

“Yoongi, fuck,” you cry out, “too much—!”

His tongue slows, easing you down instead of cutting you off, letting the aftershocks roll through you instead of shutting them down and leaving you cold.

Your heels dig into the mattress, then kick out uselessly. You squirm beneath him, hips jerking, back arching, your entire body caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

He doesn’t let you escape.

His grip on your thighs tightens just enough to keep you open, to keep you right where he wants you as he slowly works you through it. By the time he finally eases off, your legs are trembling uncontrollably as he gives one last slow drag of his tongue through you.

Your fingers loosen in his hair, your grip slipping as your strength drains out of you all at once. You collapse back against the bed fully now, limbs heavy, useless, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as your mind scrambles to catch up with what just happened.

You stare up at the ceiling, blinking through the blur of tears still clinging to your lashes, your vision unfocused.

Your body feels… light. Loose. Like you’re floating somewhere just above yourself, still drifting in the aftermath.

Your thoughts come back in pieces, slow and disjointed, until finally—

Holy shit.

Yoongi doesn’t move right away. For a few seconds, maybe longer, he just stays where he is—hands still on your thighs, his breathing heavy but starting to even out, like he’s giving you time to come back down before he does anything else.

Then, gently—so much gentler than anything he’s done so far—he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

“Hey,” he murmurs. One of his hands slides up your leg, slow and steady, a reassuring touch as he watches your face, your breathing, the way your body is still trembling faintly. “You with me?”

It takes you a second to answer.

Your brain feels like it’s still catching up, still floating somewhere just out of reach. You lift your head to blink at him, a little dazed, your lips parting before any sound comes out.

“Mhm.”

He doesn’t look entirely convinced.

His thumb brushes lightly over your knee, then higher, over your thigh, a soothing, repetitive motion as his gaze flicks over you.

“Color?” he asks.

“Green,” you breathe.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye, catching the last traces of tears there.

“Hey,” he repeats, softer this time.

You lean into his hand without thinking, your body instinctively seeking the contact, the warmth.

“I’m okay,” you murmur, just in case he’s still wondering.

“I know,” he says quietly.

But he still doesn’t pull away. He presses a soft kiss to your lips, then another. It lingers, just enough to settle you further, to start to anchor you back into your body. When he pulls back, he reaches for your hands, thumbs rubbing where they’d been tied earlier.

“Too much?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“No,” you say, a little more certain this time. “It was… good. Really good.”

Something in his expression softens at that.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah.”

He exhales quietly, like he’d been holding that in. Then, after a beat, his mouth quirks slightly.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

You blink at him, still a little out of it. “What?”

He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head as he shifts to sit beside you, one hand still resting lazily on your thigh.

“Walking around all week like that,” he says, glancing at you, something half-amused, half-exasperated in his tone. “And you didn’t think to come to me?”

Your face warms immediately.

“I was busy,” you mumble, echoing your earlier excuse, even though it sounds just as weak now as it did then.

“Bullshit,” he says, not unkindly.

His fingers tap lightly against your thigh.

“If you need something, you say it,” he continues, more serious now, his gaze settling on you properly. “If you need me, you come get me. I don’t care what time it is, I don’t care what I’m doing.”

There’s no teasing in his tone anymore. No edge. Just… certainty. You can tell he means what he’s saying, that the thought of you still being scared scares him just as bad.

“I’ll take care of you,” he adds, quieter, but somehow more firm because of it. “That’s the whole point of this, yeah?”

Your chest tightens slightly, and you nod.

“Okay,” you say softly.

He studies your face for another second, like he’s making sure you actually mean it—like he’s committing that moment to memory the same way he did everything else tonight.

Then his expression eases again, something lighter returning.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, nudging your leg gently. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Rest for a bit, then I’ll clean you up.”

You huff a weak laugh, your body still heavy, still boneless as you shift slightly toward him without even thinking about it.

And when he pulls you in like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you don’t hesitate.

Not even a little.

a/n 2: please leave a comment or send me an ask with your thoughts! if you’d like to be added to my taglist, you can go ahead and fill out my form here (no need to do so if you’re already on my permanent taglist)

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nsfw warnings: yoongi nsfw pov :))), oral (f rec), unprotected, choking, slapping, egging on because it's yoongi, multiple orgasms, ......love making................., protected, multiple rounds bc they're in fuckin' love what can i SAY!, yoongi's mouth is a warning?, reader's reactions are also a warning??, anyway, chains again, and so much care too<33   

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You ignore him and get right to work. And he feels like absolute shit. 

Why are you doing this? Why aren’t you running? Why are you choosing to stay when he’s been nothing but ice cold? 

Garbage bag in hand, you waste no time gathering up his mania. Do you even see the blood? Do you not care about what just happened?

No. It’s not that you don’t care. 

It’s that you care too much. 

Instead of leaving him to drown, you dive in right after him, swimming deeper and deeper and not caring about saving yourself. And as Yoongi can only stand there, he feels unable to move. Unable to breathe. Waiting for you to turn around and go back up for air but you don’t and it’s killing him. 

It’s when you come back with a broom that he finally snaps into action, gripping your hand that holds the handle and exhaling at your hot touch. 

You’re too good to him. “Stop.”

“No.”

Which makes this so fucking hard to watch. “Just go, please.”

“No.”

Fuck. Your stubbornness stabs into his chest. Over, and over, Yoongi can’t bear to have you witness this yet he’s pained just begging you to leave. It’s layers and layers of hurt and frustration but you. Keep. Swimming. 

Don’t drown with him. Don’t follow him into the dark. 

The crinkle of glass surrounds your feet and it’s too much to bear. He can’t even feel his toes he feels so numb, but having you see all of this pains him to no end because he’d been trying so hard to keep this side of himself from your welling eyes. 

How foolish. 

But if you’re gonna stay, at least let him clean his own shit. Aren’t you supposed to be home? At Yuri’s? Your brother is just as cut and banged up as he is, shouldn’t you be there with him instead? “I got it.” 

“Let me do it.” 

“Your brother needs you.”

“Yeah, well, I already tore the fuck into him and I’m gonna do the same to you.” As you yank the broom further from his control, you growl out a command so potent Yoongi can’t even push back, “So sit down.”

Sit down? He’d rather do anything else right now. Kiss you. Make you leave. Grab hold of you and never go anywhere else. 

In the end, he can’t do shit. Because you’re a beautiful tempest and he’s letting your storm run free in his living room. It’s for good, for good, for good. Fuck, everything hurts. This is all for good. 

That is all he can tell himself before dumping his battered body at his dining table. 

With each piece you pick up, one by one, you clean out his wounds, you suck up the pain that’s festered for so long with tear-soaked cheeks and spit it all out with your quiet rage. 

The adrenaline from facing serious injury and possibly something worse still courses through Yoongi’s veins. He can’t even sit still, fidgeting in his chair and raking shaky hands through damp strands. 

With one look at your face scrunched with worry, he can’t take it anymore. You have to leave. You have to, have to, have to. Caging you next to his dining table, he stops your strides with finality. “You’ve done enough.” 

“I still need to—” 

“Just.” He looks away from your tears. “Go home, doll. I can’t do this tonight.” 

“Do what? I’m helping you.” 

If nothing else is working? There is one way to do this. A way that will change how you perceive him and not in a positive light at all. Light would require at least some semblance of warmth or care. This solution is completely void of it. 

It’s only five words. Only six syllables. But all of them sting and poison him on the way out, because this is downright caustic, 

“Who said I needed it?” 

You immediately recoil.

Shit, shit, shit, this isn’t him. This is fucking ludicrous but he can’t stop himself from surging forward with muck on his legs.

“Yoongi, what? Are you serious?” 

“You think I’m joking?” 

“You’re kicking me out? What happened to saying you’d never do that, huh?” 

“I say a lot of things.” 

Fuck. That wasn’t what he…

…Fuck.

Well. That’s it then. You’re smart, way smarter than you give yourself credit for. Which means you’ll pick up on that vibrant red flag he just swung with both arms and abandon him completely tonight. 

Nodding, you look away, shaking your head in a way that tells him he’s two seconds from getting snapped into pieces. And Yoongi knows he damn well deserves it. “You know what? You do say a lot of things.”

Walking away, you start to… organize his things? “Like how perfect I am.” You keep going, shifting things around with a tone so alarming his heart may have beat a little. “And how there’s no one else.” 

After a second, you face him again. And it seems like you are wanting to sling heat around too because you know what you’re saying isn’t true and it’s pissing him off. “Those are just words, too, huh?” 

You are perfect. There is no one else. 

If those were just words he wouldn’t have risked his life to—

What a fucking shit show. He can’t speak of what went down tonight so this is going nowhere. 

With this insane dilemma looming over his head, Yoongi is fully aware his next laugh is anything but nice. “Nah… Not tonight.” 

“Not tonight what.” 

“We aren’t doing this tonight.” 

“The fuck we aren’t. Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere.” Yoongi shifts his head, hiding the very obvious cuts that he’s starting to feel more and more the longer this scathing verbal sparring goes on. “But you’re going home.” 

Laced in this silence, there’s still rage. There’s still passion, and it’s a fine line because he hates himself for getting to this point and he doesn’t understand why you’re still here and won’t leave him. So stubborn, so like him, so unbelievably loyal and good and everything he needs to be. 

But you say something that lights his chest and kicks his brain into gear, because he can’t even believe you continue with complete nonsense, 

“So this is how it happens, huh. Now I’m just like everyone else.” 

Both feet firmly planted and shoulders rising a little higher, Yoongi faces you head on, feeling the most alert he’s been since you rushed in. The fire in his chest licks at his lungs, propelling smoke all the way to his ears. “You’re gonna go there?” 

Your response is immediate. “I am.” 

And it takes everything inside of him to not explode. Treating you like everyone else? You know that’s bullshit. So if you’re just saying all this to fuck with him, it’s fucking working. The only thing he can come back with is a single syllable because if he says anything else, it’s gonna lead to hell fast. “Wow.” 

Suddenly, you dig into the offensive, the chasm between the two of you shaking under the weight of your argument, “You think I wanted to come here? After what all of you did?” 

“Do you even know?” 

“No! But how the fuck would I? You don’t tell me shit!” 

“That’s cus—” 

Fire spews from your lips, scorching everything at his feet and rendering him speechless yet again, “I can take care of myself. But none of you told me about that dude from the court. None of you.” 

Fuck. Yoongi knows this, he’s the one that started this whole conversation in Jimin’s car—

“If I had known? That whole Dalo thing could’ve been avoided and I would’ve ran.” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s all coming back. Everything he did led to this, including not telling you shit, and you’re more hurt than he even imagined. The self-loathing has reached a new high, and he can feel blood from where his teeth bite into his tongue. 

Didn’t he just kill the shadow in his room? Why is he still struggling to breathe?

“And today? You know how fucking scared I was? If I… I…” 

Yoongi can’t do anything but stare, and stare, and stare some more. 

He’d been so focused on getting you out of there and keeping everyone safe that he didn’t even think about how afraid you were. How terrified you were after you left in screams and tears that he can still hear ringing about his head. 

“You know what?” Your empty laugh sends shivers to his fingertips. “Forget it. You’re not even listening anyway.”

And Yoongi finally snaps with another flitter of sparks. Because he is and he knows but this isn’t how he wants to speak to you. Not with a canyon of hurt and desperation between your hearts. “I swear to—I just said not tonight.” 

“No, I get it. I do! You want me gone. Sure. See you in three more months.” 

…What? 

No. No, no, no, that’s not what he means. You gotta take him at face value. He just means not tonight so you don’t have to see him at his lowest and he doesn’t want to show this monstrous side of him that’s hurting you all over again. “Are you serious?” 

But why would you take him at face value? Why would you give him any slack right now? He sure as fuck doesn’t deserve it with the way he’s treating you. Fuck, he’s even slipping on things he would never do. What the fuck is wrong with him?  

“Yes, I am. Trying to help you but it looks like you don’t even want that. So good fucking bye.” 

This is what he wants, right? This is what he was fighting you for this entire time? He got what he wanted. You’re going back up for air. 

Now he just has to seal your decision the only way he can. Because nothing else has worked so far and he’s been too cowardly—or just fucking sensical—to go here. 

But with a vice clamped around his lungs, he does. Blackout shutters around his soul, Yoongi utters a sentence he would never, in any other circumstance, ever say to you. A question that sends white hot tears to the corners of his tired eyes. 

“Who asked you?” 

Ice fills the chasm between. 

Your eyes penetrate into the deepest parts of him, staring him down like he’s a stranger and rightfully so because this isn’t him. Fuck, this isn’t—this isn’t him and he is crumbling into ashes at your feet but he can’t bear to let you witness him like this another second. 

When your response shakes, Yoongi feels his heart give out. “Who asked me? Who asked me.” 

This is the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life. “That’s what I said.” 

How is he still on both feet when you’re looking at him like that? Your silence carves out his heart, but this is how to finally get you to leave. To run. To rid yourself of this burden sinking him lower, and lower, and lower.

“You know what? Kiss my ass, Yoongi.” 

Rock bottom. It hurts.

None of the hits he took tonight compare to the anguish this is putting him through. Absolutely nothing will. Yoongi is starting to fight out of his own chains because he can’t stand being in them. 

The damage has already been done but he’s drowning now. Get out. Claw a way out!

Dead silence rings in his ears, reaching a stinging buzz and crashing into the sound of rain and thunder. His body is thrashing out of his mind and clawing a way to the surface. 

But you drift further. And further. And further. The waves between you both crest high and fall fast, and Yoongi’s vision swims as he sways. You’re almost gone. Good. Good. You’re almost gone for good. 

…For good? 

No. No no no, that’s the farthest thing from good fuck fuck fuck. 

Yoongi can’t even recall his body tearing through the ocean of his living room so fast but he’s already at the door, slamming it shut and grasping your body for dear life. It all happens so swiftly that his fingers catch between your back and solid wood, his nails stinging from the pain and his ears ringing from your outright shouting—

“God, what the fuck! I told you to—We didn’t hear from you for hours and I—I didn’t know if you were okay—” 

The heart in his chest plummets with each weak thump of your hands. “Whoa, hold u—” 

“I thought the worst and I—didn’t even get a chance to—I finally told you want I wanted and you—Fuck—” 

Yoongi’s finally alert. He’s awake. He’s staying afloat and now he needs to pull you ashore because you are flailing in your own current of emotion. It takes everything for him to think straight and just get you to— “Just listen—” 

“Don’t ever do that again! I don’t wanna lose you and today was so fucking scary and I’m not, fucking, leaving—” 

Thank god. 

Doing the one thing that may shut you up and quell your worries, Yoongi smashes his lips against yours, pushing into you so hard water leaks from his eyes. Because you still have to go at some point, which means this could be his last taste in a long time. “I swear to—” 

You almost lost him. 

Which means he almost left you behind. 

What the fuck is he doing fighting you?

Anger from today and frustration with himself seize the reins, and he yanks you back to have you against another wall. There’s madness skimming along his bones and firing in his bloodstream. And Yoongi welcomes all the energy you’re unleashing in return, raking through his hair and his skin and blowing his eyes all the way out. 

He doesn’t even recognize his voice as he rips out a question, “Can’t fucking listen, can you?” 

“No.”  

When you shove him back, Yoongi can feel his soul go obsidian, welcoming the way you tug him into a ravaging kiss, tearing at your clothes because he can’t stand to be even one layer beyond your skin. 

What the fuck is happening? You have to leave. Didn’t he just fight for you to go? What’s his body doing? Suddenly his hand is around your throat and his heart booms at the spark in your eyes. Fuck, he needs you. Fucking hell, why do you have to be so fucking devoted? “Shouldn’t even fucking be here.” 

“When has that ever stopped us.” 

Don’t say shit like that. 

Yoongi drags you backward and into his dining table, careful to not trip you up on the way. As much as he’s relishing your rebellion, there’s a part of him that’s still terrified. “He’s still home.” 

“So?”

“Shouldn’t you—”

“Then kick me out!” His hand lets off your throat now. And for a second, he can’t speak. “For real. Let me go. Fucking do it then.” 

Gripping a bit tighter again, Yoongi gives out of control at your groan. Fucking shit, this is breaking him down so fast and you didn’t even have to do anything. All you had to do was defy his words and call every single fucking bluff he had. 

Because he wanted nothing more than for you to be right here. Nothing else matters. Not the wounds on his body, not the catastrophe of his place, not the thunder and rain outside.  

Only you. “You aren’t gonna leave me alone.” 

You meet his eyes with fire. 

“Are you.” 

The look on your face tells him everything he needs to know. No words are exchanged as the atmosphere sparks and fizzles, and yet, Yoongi understands every single fucking word. 

The moment you walked in, Yoongi had already lost. “Goddamn it.” 

Giving into the most primal of urges, the most savage of needs, tension snaps with a burst of orange and red. Claws and fangs glint in the night, rage and passion clutching each other before crashing down together. 

Devouring you and letting you have your way with him is ecstatic, a high, all consuming and Yoongi doesn’t know when anger morphs into desperation. But it does, it does, it does, and the outpouring of frustration and relief and realization that you’re here is draining him exactly how he wants. 

Taking while being taken. Worshipping while being worshipped. Everything he’d been feeling over the last three months funnels into this very moment and spills out of his system like an open, gushing wound. Toxins and pain runneth over, releasing and freeing and letting his bones free to stretch and grow again. Though battered and bruised, Yoongi feels whole again. Like he never was, or always was? With you. 

Was this all he had to do? 

All he had to do was let you in? 

You come undone, then you unravel beneath him again. The sight he thought he’d never see again unfolds in front of his very eyes and Yoongi drinks you in like a man starved on the brink of collapse. Maybe he still fucking is, because the burn he feels in his body won’t quell. The pain in his soul won’t ebb. The sobs in his ear won’t stop. 

Wait, fuck fuck, that’s you? “Baby.” 

You don’t quit, so he calls you again. And when nothing else works, Yoongi cracks out your name with a snap and grabs your chin to bring you back. Shit, he should’ve been paying attention. 

Fuck, you look so exhausted. He knows he’s responsible for that pain in your eyes. That anguish in your brows. But Yoongi will deal with that once you’re coherent and present again.

It takes you a bit to come back to him, but you do like the strong, fierce one you are. Fuck, you’re incredible even in your weakest moments. Something he’s come to love and aspire to match. 

When you beg him to not kick you out, Yoongi feels chains tug his heart taut. Pulled in so many directions, he feels the need to take deep breaths himself, and he’s so caught up in your pleas that he births a new nickname that has his brain spiraling,

“Breathe, angel.”

No time to think about that now. The only real explanation for him saying it out loud is the fact he’s thought it so many times his brain decided it needed to be set free. 

You tell him he’s perfect the way he is, and Yoongi falters. Everything you say while in his arms and fighting tears will be burned in his memory forever, and he’ll let those words carry him onto softer shores, sparkling and welcoming just like you. 

He doesn’t even realize he starts to cry until you tell him it’s okay. And he lets himself rest in the solace of your embrace until he remembers that you came in through the pouring rain. 

When you offer to share the blame? That’s when Yoongi can’t fight it anymore. This beautiful, blooming soul in his arms is radiating enough light to wash away his darkness. He has no choice but to surrender to you—his life, his devotion, his everything. 

Of course you would offer to share the blame. It’s so inherently you that Yoongi’s emotions run down with the shower spray, and he clutches onto you like life would stop as soon as he let go. 

Water. Sunlight. Warmth. 

From the mud in his chest, reaching up towards his beloved, Yoongi finally feels new life bloom. 

—

—

Darkness no longer clouds the edges of his eyes, and he can see moonlight crisper and more ethereal than he’d ever seen it before. Washed ashore, lying still, and staring at a sea of stars, Yoongi thinks his view almost looks as pretty as you. But he realizes this is because it is you. He’s there in your eyes, amongst those flecks of light. It’s breathtaking. It’s… 

You give him a tiny smile before turning to leave his bedroom. And Yoongi follows with his vision swimming. 

This feeling… 

You’re both in the kitchen now, his feet planted on warm tile as you grab your phone to do whatever’s in that beautiful brain of yours. God, you’re ethereal just standing there, so gorgeous, so present. His life’s most precious gift. “What shall we eat… Stew? Or, wait—” 

Yoongi watches as you give him a once over. “Actually, let’s figure you out first.” 

As you speak, he can’t offer anything. He can’t even move, because something is growing in his chest and it’s starting to feel like he’ll burst. “Okay, let’s see. You’re breathing fine, so no bruised ribs. Umm…” 

This feeling… It’s an urge. It’s an irrevocable emotion. 

It’s all you. All Yoongi sees is you. Light. Shine. Glow. The rainbow that came after the rain, casting color and new life into his dulled existence and clearing his mind of all sludge. His ribs are battered, but this has been the easiest he can breathe. 

“It looks really bad there, though. You sure you can move right?” 

How does that even make sense? How do you manage to make him second guess his life at every turn? He can be happy, even if it doesn’t make sense now. 

Your radiance is just beyond his cracked, clawed walls, and this need to fight his way out is stronger than it’s ever been. You deserve his best. You want every piece of him. 

Every version of him.

Throat burning and breath short, Yoongi runs across his mind, footsteps unimpeded towards the door he’s been waiting behind, clenching his fist around the knob and yanking it all the way open to pull himself through without resistance and turning towards the shimmering expanse across his eyes. 

“Okay, so no bruised ribs, and according to this you don’t have any broken bones. And nothing fractured, either, thank god—” 

And sunlight conquers the dark. 

“I love you.” 

You stop as soon as his heart thrums, pulsing with purpose, with the intention of keeping him full and alive because that’s exactly how he feels. 

Alive.

You question what he says, but Yoongi doesn’t answer with words. The emotion pooling in his eyes will have to suffice, because if he says what he really wants to say? You’d probably run from how ahead of himself he really is. 

So instead, surrounded by a kitchen that has seen the worst and best of him, Yoongi simply repeats out loud what’s been fact for months now, 

“I love you, doll.”

It’s okay that you don’t move. It’s okay if you don’t say anything back. 

He almost lost you. And you may have almost lost him had it not been for everyone else there. To even be able to confess is a blessing in itself, and even if you don’t reciprocate, Yoongi is more than fine with that. Because he’s still on this earth, in this lifetime, and this version of him was able to find this version of you. 

And he’ll do it again, and again, and again.

“And you don’t have to say anything. I know I don’t deserve to. I can’t be everything you want. Or need. Or whatever the fuck I’m trying to say. But I just needed you to know because I can’t fucking fight this shit anymore—” 

When you rush to embrace him with the utmost care, it proves too much to hide anything else. Yoongi’s walls fully fall with the tears from his eyes as you cry into his skin. Words bump and collide into each other as he fails to express how grateful he is to be alive and to be in your arms. It’s too much to bear. It’s too much to convey. All he can do is fucking sob. “Goddamn it, I love you—”

“Yoongi—”

“—so fucking much.”

You didn’t deny him. You didn’t look repulsed, or disappointed, or angry. All the fears that berated him for days prove useless and wrong and there’s no better feeling that exists in the spectrum of human emotion. 

Orange and blue coalesce and intertwine, and his mind shines with a rainbow of iridescence, scintillating and bounding like the suncatchers in your eyes. 

With his next blinks, something happens that renders his mind speechless. 

He slowly looks beyond your shoulder and sees a figment of himself—a younger version with big dreams and a battered heart—standing at the edge of his kitchen and donning a look of trepidation. 

Before realizing that everything’s going to be alright. 

Yeah, kid. Everything is more than alright.

And this only makes Yoongi cry harder, and he watches himself grin before offering a simple nod, walking out with hands in his pockets and fading footsteps.

Healed. 

“Yoongi.” 

His name leaves your lips so cracked that it hurts him in the best way. It takes all of him to hold you tight, finding shelter from his own shower of tears in the crook of your shoulder. 

This is what he’ll remember forever. Your outpouring of emotion receiving his biggest fear with warmth. He should’ve seen this coming, but darkness and trauma has a damn good way of beating your expectations down into dust. Just like the glass shattered across his living room floor not too long ago. 

You still haven’t said anything. But this is more than enough. This is everything Yoongi could ask for and he’s cherishing every millisecond he gets with you in this newfound life, this life beyond his own, this eternity. 

“Yoongi, I—”

He swoops in to catch your words in his mouth, and it’s in this very moment that he realizes that he’s terrified of anything you have to say back. Is that ridiculous? Is that unreasonable? He doesn’t care. There’s a chance these past three months have changed your mind and he’s not ready to hear it if that’s the case. 

Just stay here with him and let him love you. Just stay here by his side and let him watch you with a vision finally unclouded. 

Yoongi backs you up into the opposite counter, smothering you with everything else he wants to say but can’t. Because anything else he wants to confess still scares the living shit out of him.

Your breathy words already hit harder when you finally speak again, “I… I can’t… Yoongi—”

He can’t either. Whatever you’re about to say, he fucking can’t, either. Holding your head, he plants his forehead on yours. “I’m sorry,” he rasps out, hoping you can tell he means it, for everything. “I won’t ever be able to say that enough.” 

“Baby,” you hiccup, resting a hand over one of his. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not.”

How can he ever make all of this up to you? The distance, the shutout, the shutdown, the way he tried to get you to leave. All of it weighs his heart down and forces out apologies to his brain. Over, and over, he can only say sorry. And he’s so fucking relieved that he gets to tell you because he made it out and they all survived. 

“It is.” You squeeze his hand, and he immediately calms. Inhaling your natural scent, he lowers his lids as you whisper, “You’re okay, so I’m okay.” 

All you wanted was for him to be okay. And all he needed for that to happen was having you right here. 

This is deeper than love. 

After he plants a warm kiss on your temple, he feels so goddamned overwhelmed he has to ball his fists. “I just—fuck.” 

“Babe,” you say with the softest care, “I’m here.” 

“I know.” He sighs, smushing into your lips and holding you so tenderly, yet so tight. As he laps at your tongue, salt coats his lips and he knows what it means. 

You’re here. He almost got you to leave. And you almost did and he finally, finally, finally fought for you to stay. 

Yoongi plants kisses all over your skin, marvelling at how perfect you are even if you don’t believe it. You’re everything. And he’s so drawn to you that he can feel his body responding without pause. 

But he won’t give into those urges unless you want him to. He can live off your little breaths, your roaming hands, your small hitches as he keeps peppering love along your canvas. This can be enough to keep him going well into the next year or ten. 

His name leaves your mouth in a sigh, your back arching just how he loves. “If you only knew,” he whispers, laughing to himself as he wraps an arm around your side.

“Knew what?”

“Nothing, babe.” He captures your lips again, and he can feel that you want what he wants. And his heart pulses in double time. “You’re so—fuck.”

His hands find yours as he starts to walk to the bedroom, leading you and loving how your fingers slot into his perfectly. When you both reach the bed, you stop him with a little question of concern, “Are you sure?” 

“I’ll be alright, doll.” There’s nothing but care in his movements as he lowers you down, transfixed by how beautiful you are in his sheets. The fact that you’re down to do this again after taking him so well has his mind spinning. “As much as I think you enjoyed the first time, this time will be better.” 

Giggling, you read him like a story you’ve memorized, “You enjoyed it more than I did, I think.” 

“I don’t think so.” A lie. “Lemme get a cond—” 

“It’s okay.”

…What did you just say?

Yoongi needs clarification on what the fuck you just said because he is now convinced this whole night is a dream and he’s hallucinating you in his bed and he’s gonna wake up to none of this happening at all because what the fuck did you just say? “...What?” 

“We don’t…” You swallow, and his heart stops completely at your next sentence. “We don’t have to this time.” 

There’s no fucking way. “You sure?” 

Cradling his face with the softest of touches, you confirm with a smile so shy Yoongi wants to shield you from the rest of the world, “Just for a little bit.” 

And you add something he absolutely needed to hear because his breaths haven’t resumed. “I trust you.” When your eyes slightly waver, Yoongi crumbles at your last words, “And I want to, if you want it, too.” 

Of course he wants this. But hearing the suggestion come from you? That’s new, and he’s not complaining in the least. “I want what you want, doll.” 

“Then it’s okay.”  

His fingers. They’re already fucking shaking. 

But Yoongi’s not going to say anything to change the trajectory of this moment. Something about his bedroom feels different, as if it’s been plucked from this universe and placed in a separate pocket of time where only the two of you exist. 

You aren’t wavering in your gaze. All you do is stare with pools in your eyes as he slowly peels clothes from your legs and his own. Determination is all he can see, and that solidifies his confession that he’ll keep saying again, and again, and again. 

Can you hear how breathless he sounds? Can you feel every shiver running up and down his spine? Do you notice how he could disintegrate at any moment? 

But before you both do this for real, he has to be absolutely sure. One last time. 

And you respond without him having to ask. “Yes, my love.” 

After a kiss he’ll remember forever, Yoongi kisses you back, taking his time and inundating your lips with every bit of him that he deems good. There’s a mix of emotion as he positions himself, and he has to fight the shakes when he feels the velvet touch of your folds. 

Holy fuck, he’s not gonna last. He already knows this won’t take long purely based on the way he’s already fighting hard to keep his fucking composure. 

But you’re so slick that it doesn’t take much for him to slide in, and the feeling of being fully molded into you is so incredible he could pass out. What the fuck. “Holy fucking shit.” 

“Yoongi—” 

“Fuck.” 

You’re already clenching around him. Oxygen can’t even reach his lungs. There’s no greater feeling in the world than what’s vibrating in his bones, getting to feel the person he loves just like this. Whole. Yoongi feels so whole and he knows you’re fighting to prolong this feeling just as hard as he is. 

Which only makes this shit even harder goddamn. 

Your giggle barely reaches his ears, “You good, baby?” 

He turns to watch your eyes, wondering when the fuck he got so close and wondering if he’s still even living. “Yeah, just...” He stares before finally taking a breath, exhaling hard from exertion alone. “Just this is about to make me bust.” 

When you laugh, your admittance coaxes a long, lopsided grin, “I was just thinking the same, holy shit. We’re not good at this.” 

Now that is a fuckin’ lie on your part. “No. You’re too good at this. I can’t even move.” 

“Yes, you can,” you whine. “You wreck my shit all the time.” 

Fucking hell. You have to know how much power you have in that whine. Preventing himself from coming inside you legitimately hurts at this point. Not that he’s complaining but god. “Doll, if you keep talking like that, I’m pulling out.” 

“Okay, okay,” you surrender, giggling again and making him weaker and weaker. 

His voice is so strained it’s embarrassing. “You’re a little too perfect right now.” When you shake your head, he will not have any of that doubt in his face. “You are.”

“Nowhere close.”  

You don’t wanna do that. Facing you nose to nose, Yoongi taunts, welcoming this distraction from busting in your beautiful folds. “Say that again and see what happens.”

“Is that what you tell all the others fuck!”

Fuck, you take his thrusts so well. His cock is outright throbbing now. “What did I fuckin’ say?” 

“What—”

Another launch has your mouth flopping open, and Yoongi can’t think straight anymore. All he can spit out is everything as raw as you’re taking him, “You think there’s someone else? Hmm?” 

He pushes forward again. And your expression makes him moan so guttural it even gets himself going. Grabbing your chin, he feels sweat under his fingers as he vows, “You’re gonna regret saying that.” 

You just laugh, and Yoongi groans at his next thrust and how deep he goes. When you taunt him again, he can only glower with pride, thrusting up again and sending you twisting and thrashing in passionate waves. “Uh huh.” 

“Make me then,” you gasp for air. “Make me really sorry.” 

How could he ever deny you?

His hands find your body before he dives, breaking loose and ramming into you as hard and fast as his hips allow. The pain in his side rises which each swing, but that doesn’t matter. You feel so perfect around him he thinks he can stay here until he’s physically yanked from this plane of existence. 

Heaven. “Taking me so well like this.” 

“I—”

“So fucking tight.”

Animal instincts scratch along Yoongi’s brain, blurring his vision and buzzing his actions into staccato jolts. When your jaw hangs, the first thing he thinks to do is smack your cheek, and he grunts when your eyes darken three shades,

“Do it again.” 

Did you just—

“Do it again,” you growl, moaning to the sky when he obliges a second time oh fuck you’re cutting his airway and it careens him into carnal bliss. 

Fuck, the pain feels good. So good that everything roars in his core and he turns completely primal, forfeiting all sense of decency and ravishing you exactly how he wants and exactly how you need. What the fuck is his shirt still doing on your body? That needs to go. But too much time would be wasted getting it off, but he can settle with shoving it up and devouring your chest just like this oh yes. 

“Oh, fuck, Yoongi!” 

“Uh uh.” 

“Please—please—” 

Lapping at your tits is one of his favorite things at this point. Almost as natural as embracing you and holding down your beautiful wrists just to watch you preen with a smile. Because this is exactly what you do now, teeth shining in the night and eyes creased and slicing through his beating, beating, beating heart. 

Yoongi’s sure he’s stuttering out words that praise you, but there’s nothing truly registering in his head other than your sinful, angelic sounds. Truthfully, these moans you’re puffing out are enough to send him over the edge because you sound so fucking pretty. 

“Baby,” you gasp. “I’m close, I’m—” 

Shit shit shit, he’s gonna— “Shit.” 

The last braincell he has commands his entire body, lunging up and pulling out of his newfound home before spilling mercilessly onto your exposed stomach, shuddering and shivering from lust and passion and something else scarier than the rest. 

Hearing nothing from your lips, Yoongi finally regards you with ragged breaths. 

You look so in shock. And he’s so exposed and snapped lucid that he is now downright shy. “Fuck,” he shakes out with a laugh. “Thought I could hold out.” 

“No, no, it’s fine,” you assure, laughing light and offering a smile. “Oh my god, I promise.” 

Something must now be very wrong with him, or the wiring in his brain has been changed. Because every time he sees your lips? There’s an innate need to kiss them. It’s almost blasphemous if he doesn’t. 

Fuck. He winces on the way down. There’s no doubt you saw that, which sucks. He doesn’t want you to worry about him, those lines on your forehead don’t need to be there. 

“Stay there, beautiful.” Shit, getting out of the bed hurts even worse now. I’m not done with you.” 

“Baby, are you sure?” 

He’s sure. You don’t need to lift a single finger tonight unless it’s for him to kiss. 

Walking to the bathroom and facing away, Yoongi can finally let his strong demeanor drop, wincing fully and squinting his eyes in pain. But it should subside in just a bit. Going too hard was probably the worst decision, but there was no way he was passing that shit up if you wanted it. 

From the time he comes back to sit on the bed, to wiping your face and your stomach, Yoongi doesn’t feel your stare let up even once. Which is fine. This is the most calm he’s ever felt in his life, cleaning the love of his life after a connection he didn’t expect to have until you both had reached another milestone. 

But as soon as he stares back, that’s when you look away. And it’s so adorable his heart beats a shade of lavender. “What, love.” 

“I just… nothing,” you whisper. 

“Tell me.” You’re not hiding anything from him now—fuck, he probably shouldn’t lie on this side. But fuck it. “I wanna know.” 

Well. Not on your watch apparently. You command him to lie on your other side, and he’s not gonna be told twice. Shit is hurting like hell right now.

But he settles at your side, ears perked and awaiting your every syllable. “It’s a secret.” 

Huh. “A secret?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Well, this is definitely not what he expected. But anything to entertain and amuse you. Anything you want to tell him, he’ll bring to his grave. Lifting your chin, he softly rubs your cheek before whispering, “I can keep those, you know.” 

That smile is why he fell in love. “Okay, I’ll tell.” 

Why do you look so mischievous right now? Who is this cute ball of sudden energy? Are you not as exhausted as he feels? Yoongi is sure he could fall asleep in your arms right now without so much another breath—

“I love you, too.”

…What? 

The stop of a clock.

Absolute silence.

Soon, every star in the sky glows brighter, the moon shining beams into his room and coating your body in heavenly light. It’s so piercing and true that Yoongi feels little pricks at his eyes, desperately hoping he heard you correctly because if he didn’t, his body would crumble and wash away with the tide. 

“And you deserve more than I could ever give.” 

Oh. 

He heard you right. 

And all he can see is you just beyond the sand under his fingertips, eyes reflecting tangerine and summer sparks and everything he wants to be. 

He doesn’t remember rushing forward, he doesn’t remember kissing you. But he’s locked on your quivering mouth, not faring much better and very sure his tears are coating your tongue, too. 

What the fuck does he say? Every word in every language he knows abandons him, too stunned at your confession and reciprocation that he can only show what he feels in his movements. 

Fuck sleep. 

He’s giving you every ounce of his energy tonight. 

This is how he can thank you. For caring about him, for not giving up on him, for not leaving him when he was at his absolute lowest. 

For loving him. 

For loving him. 

The pain ceases to bother him. Because he’s joining you in the sea now, diving deep between your legs and lapping at your every wave of pleasure. All he can think about is how you taste like magic, like devotion, like home. And buried in your core and away from your moans, he can let his tears flow, eyes scrunched and fingers gripping your thighs as if you’d leave as soon as he lets go. 

When you say his name, Yoongi says nothing. Because he still cannot find it within himself to speak. If he does? You’d surely run. Getting ahead of himself is the theme tonight, and there’s no telling what he’d say next if he doesn’t keep his tongue occupied with your ebb and flow. 

He really could go all night just like this. 

And that thought is so natural that it doesn’t even phase him. 

Your hands jut into his hair before you come on his tongue a second time, and the groan he pushes out rumbles his entire being. 

“Holy fuck, baby—!” 

Your waves crash onto the shore yet again, magnificent and beautiful and sparkling. Even though he’s as close as he could possibly be, Yoongi needs to be closer. So he gets up and lets your cunt breathe as he smothers your lips once more, pouring adoration into your lungs and sacrificing air to do so. 

“Fuck.” He needs you. Yoongi can’t control the dragon in his chest that yearns for connection again, even though he knows this one cannot mirror the last. So he gets up to grab a condom, instantly thinking about how shy you were to show him which ones you got when you re-upped. 

Fucking good ones, that’s for damn sure. He can pretty much feel all of you if he thinks hard enough, even with these on. Minx. “Don’t take this the wrong way.”

“Oh, I already know.”

“K. But god, I fuckin’ want to.”

The look in your eye is familiar. And the words you say are even more so. “One day.”

Fuck, he loves you. 

And for the rest of the night, as much as he can muster, Yoongi shows you just how much. At least, he hopes you can tell from the way he makes love to you, each stroke intentional, each touch of your face tender, each look in your eye full of yearning even though you’re right there with him. 

Is it possible to want someone when they’re right there? 

What does that mean? How does he feel so fucking hungry when he’s so full of you? 

It almost—almost—scares him how he can’t get enough of your body. But it’s probably your soul that he’s holding instead, and you have so much that he can’t carry it all. 

Yoongi’s eyes burn, but not in a blaze of fire. They burn like a hearth, like a calm flame in the heart of a house.  

Because he’s finally home. 

—

—

Spent, satiated, and still wanting more but letting rest take over his tired bones, Yoongi finds himself next to your shimmering eyes and roaming fingers. God, he loves when you play with his hair. If there was one thing that could always calm his storm? This would be it.

That, and your hums. He could live indefinitely in your song.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” you finally whisper. When you catch his eyes, you shift from one to the other. “But I really was so mad at you. All of you.” 

He doesn’t blame you one bit for that. “I know.” 

“I don’t wanna lose you.”

Ah. Will he ever tell you how close that was to happening? Why does that one question make him feel so fucking guilty? “It won’t happen again.” 

“That’s what you said last time.” 

As he holds your gaze, Yoongi thinks it’s better to wait. But he can at least explain why things went down the way they did. Why you had to be sent away. “They were gonna follow us home if we didn’t, babe,” he says with certainty. “We all knew that.” 

“Oh, fuck.” Don’t cry. Everything is okay now. Please don’t let this burden you. “I didn’t… I didn’t think about that.” 

His silent pleas don’t work, because of course you would cry for them. That’s just who you are, and there’s zero need to change that. 

But it doesn’t make this situation less painful. Sitting up, Yoongi has to hang his head between his knees to hide his guilt. “You don’t need to think about shit like that,” he murmurs, remembering something else he can tell you that’s okay to divulge. “But we talked after you told us off. We won’t hide that from you anymore.” 

“Thank you…” 

A brief touch on his shoulder turns into a calm yet firm hold of his arm. You’re slowly unraveling him, just like a fruit that reminds him of you, and he’s brought into your loving warmth without a word. 

The two of you don’t need to exchange those so much anymore. Not when he can sense what you need, and when you can read him better than anyone ever has.

Only one person knows him more.

And finally remembering there are other people in the world—including the only one he fears—douses him with a splash of water. 

He’s way too deep now. He really has to do something because if he gets pulled away from you ever again, his heart may as well get ripped from his chest. 

“Thank you for letting me in.”

Yoongi’s eyes still.

“It was raining really hard.” 

Fuck. 

There have been multiple doors opened tonight. Not just the one he finally yanked himself through. And with each swing of solid wood, his heart began to breathe easier and easier, its beating stronger and fuller.

But with this last door? This one you just opened with a whisper and a soft touch? 

His whole body freezes. Because it’s a swift punch to his already pained ribcage and all he can do is leak sentences from his eyes. 

“Babe?”

Only you can affect him this potently. Only you can bring him to his knees. 

“Hey. Look at me.”

He doesn’t want to. Fuck, he’s way too timid and fragile right now to even turn your way. Yoongi feels as if all his layers have been stripped bare, lying in one piece around him and exposing his vulnerable state. 

But he obeys. And he can feel the slip of warmth on his face before you spring into action, 

“Oh, fuck, come here.”

He’s gathered in your arms and it reminds him of many things. Like the tug of warm rushing water, and the first time he realized how he felt about you. 

But above all, it reminds him of the loving embrace of his mother, one that he’s been swooped into every time he needed her most. 

And this singular comparison knocks him off balance entirely. 

“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper, pressing his face into your neck and soothing him when he doesn’t utter a damn word. “I’m not mad anymore, okay? I’m just glad you’re alright.”

How does one respond when an angel speaks to them? Is it possible to form words when your heart lodges itself in your throat? This proves too difficult. And Yoongi is trying so fucking hard to keep himself in one piece.

Too late. He can’t stop his nose from a sniff. But it’s okay, because he knows he can be like this with you. He can let go, because you’ve always allowed him to be wholly himself. 

For the first time, in a very long time, Yoongi feels… 

Protected. 

He doesn’t have to be strong right now. He doesn’t even have to pretend to be more okay than he is. He can just be and that in itself gives him the most comfort he’s had in years and years. 

The answer was always you. How many other times can he materialize this singular solution in his mind? 

Infinite, infinite, infinite times. 

“This isn’t about that, doll,” Yoongi croaks, burying wet eyes further into your shoulder. “It’s just…”

He almost can’t finish what he’s saying. It takes everything to shove it out because he wants to truly say everything he feels. Consequences and potential reactions be damned.

The truth remains. 

“It’s so fucking better when you’re here.” 

When you choke out a sob, his body responds, “I sleep better. Eat better. Fuck, I even feel better even if nothing else changes.”

“Yoongi…”

“It’s true.” Every single bit of it. The truth is so concrete in his chest that he can barely breathe. Sighing, Yoongi sniffs again before letting his weight fall into your loving side. “I mean that.”

You smooth a hand over his hair. Something that he’s missed so fucking much. “Then… Those three months…”

“One day, I’ll tell you everything,” he offers, surprising himself because there’s so many things that will scare you shitless. But what’s done is done. The future is now, and immediate changes are in order. “But from now on, you can be here whenever you want.” 

Skimming along his strands, you cheekily ask, “So I can come to those parties you host, too?” 

Oh? You know about those? It makes sense, since your brother did attend some and stayed for a bit. “Those weren’t my idea, by the way. Jimin made me.” 

You’re silent as he gravitates to your shoulder, inhaling your scent while kissing its curve. “He was worried. And hoping you would show.” Again, you don’t speak, leaving room for Yoongi to keep revealing more and more of his unending string of thoughts, “I knew you wouldn’t. But… I did hope to see you, too.” 

As you resume your gentle touches, your chest rises and falls before you finally talk, “It’s okay. It would’ve been too obvious.”

What, that he missed you? That he wouldn’t have left the same room you were in? That his eyes would’ve drifted to you because the rest of him couldn’t? “What would’ve.”

“That I wanted you all to myself.”

Oh. The two of you are so similar. “You already have that.”

Voice softer and more timid, you respond, “You know what I mean.” 

Of course he does. In fact, he wants to see how you’d act if there was nothing holding you back. Because if it were him? Everyone would know who has him cuffed up and chained down, and just how much he fucking loves it—

“My brother was the one that invited me,” you blurt. “To come to those, I mean.”

Wait.. He what? “Huh.”

“I know.” You absentmindedly take his hand and kiss along his ridges, staring off into space and time. “It makes me wonder if he knows.”

Does he? Yoongi doesn’t think so, considering he himself is still alive and breathing semi-fine. 

Back in the parking lot, though, things could’ve gotten suspicious as hell once that fucker started mentioning you to him. But the guy from Dalo taunted him first on the court way back when. Of course he’d single him out. 

But still… When your brother told him to get out of the car, he probably lost two of his nine lives. “What if he does?”

You turn, eyes wide. “Does he?”

Focusing on your lips hovering over his fingers, Yoongi runs through every scenario in his mind. The most glaring thing he can think of just happened in your front yard, but your brother told him to break up with his ex. So there’s no way he’d think you were even an option.

So the most obvious answer, thankfully, would be, “No.”

Relief lowers your shoulders. “Okay. But you’re sure I can stay?” 

Ah. He forgot about this single scheme he cooked up days ago, as soon as he was told your brother would be heading out for a surprise trip. 

Getting to tell you in person? This makes his heart sing. “Who do you think you bought those groceries for?” 

Jackpot. That expression is fucking priceless. “What?” 

Yoongi cannot believe he almost let you leave. If you had walked back out into the rain, his future would have looked much different. And, frankly, quite fucking bleak. “I get you for a week, right?”

It’s just for a second, but the wheels spinning in your head can plainly be seen. He can’t help but laugh at the way you scrunch that cute ass nose as you burst, 

“You sneaky little—” 

That look. The look you have when you’re nothing but happy? He wants that permanently etched into your features forever. There’s nothing else he wants more than to keep you shining and shining. 

Giving in to your kisses, Yoongi loses himself in the best way, melting against your lips and feeling warmth pool in his chest. 

Is going behind your brother’s back one more time still mutinous? Yes. But this will be the very last time. All the sneaking, all the hidden truths, all the little lies will be over soon enough. 

You need it to be, your brother deserves for it to be, and Yoongi yearns for it to be. 

“One day,” he murmurs, caught in a sudden determination to rewire his whole framework for your sake, “I’ll be better.”

“Don’t make it just one day, silly.” 

Did you just… What did you just say?

Clutching a little bit of his shirt, you whisper with complete devotion, “We’ll make it as many as we can.”

It’s not enough to say he loves you.

What he feels digs seven leagues farther into his soul, carving out a haven shaped like you just so he can permanently keep you there. Safe. Protected. Glowing like the pop of fireworks and the shine of sunlight through summer leaves. 

Yoongi’s not quite sure of a lot of things. Unfortunately, one of those includes knowing when exactly he’d be okay. Be truly, one hundred percent okay. 

But he’s sure of one thing, and that’s your word. If you’re with him, you’re with him. He’s known this for awhile now, but it doesn’t hit him until tonight, right as you fought to stay while staring his monsters in the eye. 

A light laugh lands on his hair, and Yoongi wonders where your mind is. Probably wandering and trying to find his own, since he knows he drifted off just a bit. 

“At least. Until the day I get to meet my cat.”

Yoongi’s brows perk up at your confidence. 

“Then I’m running away with her.”

Is that right? Maybe he believes you, but who is he to surrender so easily? “Oh, yeah?”

Your pout is priceless. “Yeah. But I’m starting to think she ran away already and you won’t fess up.”

A laugh leaps out of his chest, because technically she did but ultimately came back. You really don’t know half of it, but he has time to tell you everything. Even the parts he doesn’t want to. “She’s still here!”

“Lies.”

“How much are you betting, doll.”

“How much are you willing to lose, babe.”

Alright, he’s had enough. The urge to tickle you roars again, and he doesn’t have to keep his hands to himself. “This much,” he says with his attack, loving your bubbling laughter, “Maybe I’ll make you leave after all if you’re gonna be a problem.” 

“You did threaten to kick me out before.” 

Yoongi stops on your soft curves. “Huh? When?”

“That day I showed up.” Your eyes crease as you watch him stare far into your eyes. “Said you were gonna kick me out for hustling you.” 

Oh, fuck, he did! 

The laugh that rumbles from his belly is so fast and loud that his side hurts like hell fuck but he can’t help it because the giddiness gets the best of him. Damn, he really did say that the very first day. From day one, he’s been such a liar. “I should’ve!” 

“You really should’ve.” 

“Played me from the very start. You happy with yourself?” Of course you nod. It’s attractive in the best and worst ways, and soon he’s not gonna know what to do with the confident version of you. “Course you are.” 

“You love it.” 

“I do.” 

The sentence he wants to say next is balancing on the tip of his tongue. But it’s even more fun to dangle in front of your awaiting eyes, knowing you have a feeling of what he’s gonna say. 

So he just bites his own lips before pulling you in for a kiss. “Thought I was gonna say it, huh.” 

“No! …Maybe.” 

Adorable. “Guess what.” 

Yoongi doesn’t even acknowledge your suspicion before seizing your mouth, kissing you deep and feeling the arch of your chest into his. Fuck, he loves when you do that. It’s one of his favorite things, even more so when it happens right here in his bed. 

If it ever happens again in yours… 

After a few passes, he raises himself, planting a hand at your side and slotting a leg in between yours. God, your skin. It’s so smooth against his, and yet, you’re so unbelievably strong. So firm. So loyal. It’s never going to fully click that you’re doing this all for him. 

There are multitudes of what Yoongi wants to say to you. But you two have all the time in the world now. He’s gonna shower you with so much appreciation and adoration that you may not know what to do with him. And that’s perfectly okay. 

When he lets up, you move wet lips to whisper, “What were you gonna say?” 

Drawn to your nose, Yoongi gives in to his urges yet again and kisses you there, letting loose and firing another confession into the dark night sky, “I just fucking love you, doll.” 

Oh. You’re trying to duck him now? That’s not gonna work, but it’s fucking cute as hell. “You can’t hide now, babe.” 

“I can!” 

Nah, you can’t run. He has more to say and he’s gonna say it to your face. Or ear. Whatever is willing to take in his sparkling, booming declarations, “I love fucking you, too.” 

“Yoongi!” 

He can’t help but laugh now, holding you tighter and snuggling his nose into your scent. Inhaling, inhaling, exhaling relief. Relief that you are here and relief that he is, too.

That second of terror, not knowing if he was going to survive? It feels so far away and right on his heels all at once. It’s a strange feeling, wondering if the universe intentionally gave him a second chance and now wondering why. Clearly, he now has some soul searching to do. 

But two things are for sure: music, and you.

And to Yoongi, they are one and the same.  

“I miss you.”

What?

Looking down at your head, Yoongi wonders if he wandered too far, “How? I’m right here.”

You lower into his chest, and he feels his heartbeat quicken. “I still miss you.”

Fuck. He knows how that feels. 

Feeling the rush of melancholy, he embraces your sides, knowing that there’s a goodbye to every hello and he knows your dreading this part just as much as he is. 

A flare of blue streaks across his chest. Something burning so hot and searing a decision on the inside of his lungs. 

And fuck, it’s already making him shake. “I can’t do shit like this anymore.” 

You completely still in his arms, and he knows why. But this is the only way he can get all of this out because it’s frightening and he’s running from the one sentence he has to say out loud.

“I wanna do this the right way.” 

He can’t fucking stop his breaths from studdering, and you push up to check on his current shake,

“What are you saying?” 

Just say it. Just fucking say it. He’s ready to walk into fire, knowing a piece of him might disintegrate into ashes. “I’m saying I’ll tell him, doll. Just me.” 

It takes a second or two for you to realize what he says. And he gets that. This is sudden, and it’s throwing him into a new state of panic that would destroy him if you weren’t there warming his skin.

The gleam of your tears gives him a will to breathe. 

And Yoongi swallows every shadow and doubt before taking the first step towards freedom, famine, or both. 

For you, for you, for you. Always and forever, for you. 

“I’ll tell him everything.” 

More water engulfs your eyes as you fall silent, and Yoongi can’t quell the beating in his chest. Are you shocked? Scared? Just as fucking frightened as he is? 

Because he has a lot coming for him and there’s no way around it. He just has to hope to everything in the universe and beyond that he can withstand whatever hell your brother will unleash. 

And the guilt waiting for him on its haunches. “Babe?” 

“I’m just…” Your brows deepen as your face scrunches, but what you say makes him blink twice. “I can’t…”

Yoongi’s heart is millimeters from the ground. “What?”

When your hand grips your chest, he feels his whole world pulse with the urge to protect you. You look so scared of something, and it’s probably the same as what’s haunting him. He wishes things were different, he wishes he did things better, he hates himself for—

“I love you so much it fucking hurts.”

Oh. 

You… That’s all you’re thinking about? Him? His throat sears through at how wrong he was. How the fuck will he ever deserve you?

“Maybe cus I’m scared as shit,” you confirm one of his worries, clenching another beautiful hand over your chest. “Or maybe one heart isn’t enough to hold it all.” 

If that isn’t the fucking truth. 

Just saying the words will never be enough. Like it’s laughable how much he feels for you, what he would do for you. The way he went from a bruised heart to growing another just for you inflates his battered ribcage and leaves him breathless. “It’s been hurting for me, too,” he croaks, chest constricted by the rivers on your face. “A lot longer than three months.”

When your palm reaches to cup his cheek, Yoongi can’t hold back the tear that falls into its ridges. Because his capacity for emotion seems to be limitless around your tender heart. You’re his safe haven, his hearth, his home where he can be himself and not feel like he has to hide. 

You’re his everything. And he’s simply yours in every sense of the word. 

“I just wish I was here for those,” you whisper with leaking eyes that match his. “I missed you, Yoongi. I didn’t want to say much, but… It affected me a lot more than I thought.”

“I know,” he responds, cracked and broken beyond repair. “There’s nothing I can say that can change what I did.” 

Your sniffles stab like knives. 

“But listen. Hmm?” He shifts to kiss the inside of your palm. “Never again.” 

When you can only nod, his lungs collapse. “Serious. And you’ll know how serious by tomorrow. K?”

“K,” you breathe out, silent as you watch him pepper more and more kisses along your wrist between inhales. His plan will be fully done by the end of the day tomorrow. There’s a bit to do, but he’s got time. Everything will be worth it just to keep you happy and at peace. 

And maybe this will help him get there, too. 

“Come here, doll,” he whispers, shutting both eyes when you rush to his lips before he even finishes the plea. And your mouth pins his in the best way, smothering with salt and a deluge he laps at, sucks in, smushes closer with a hand to your head. 

When you break away, Yoongi gulps in air as you do the same, hearing your soft sniffs and still wishing things had been done differently. 

But he can’t change the past. And the present is more than he could ever ask for. So there’s no point in dwelling on the roads you both took to get here.

“I love when you call me that,” you admit, breaking into his thoughts. 

“Doll?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Kinda picked up on that.” Ah, you’re trying to hide one more time? Do you know that’s never gonna fly with him? “Huh, now we’re shy again?” 

“Always.” 

“We both know that’s not true.” Yoongi laughs until you latch onto his neck, and blood speeds to his groin as he instantly loses himself in a groan. He doesn’t even register his head kicking back until his words come out strained, “Fuckin’ hustler, fuck…” 

When you chuckle, your vibrations send jolts along his limbs, activating every fucking cell and lighting up his brain until it’s completely blank. 

“Gotta live up to my name somehow,” you joke, pulling away and leaving a cold patch in your wake. “But seriously, that’s all you get. We have to sleep.” 

“What, you don’t wanna see the cat anymore?” 

“I never said that!”

You’re way too easy, but he’d be the same exact way. The last time he got you both up to see your little gift, she wasn’t outside. Will she be there now? 

With tired muscles, you both get out of the bed, and he holds out his hand to guide your zigzag waddles through his apartment that he can finally breathe in. 

“Wait,” you halt with your arm. When Yoongi obeys with a look, you turn to him and show off how logical you are, “There’s probably glass still.” 

He nods, resting you against his door before fetching slippers from his closet. And it hurts like a bitch to lean down, but he slips your pair on so you don’t have to move. Rather him than you anyday. 

And that look of pure adoration he gets in return will always be fucking worth it. 

God. Things really are better when you’re here. 

He can’t believe how stupid he’s been. 

With the proper footwear, both of you slowly make your way through his place, and Yoongi shifts his vision around to check for any large shards of glass to navigate you around. Somehow, it looks like you got most of the damage out. But some tiny specks and chips still remain, and he notes to get them soon—

“If she’s not out there again, I’m gonna cry.”

Yoongi laughs before squeezing your fingers. “Me, too.”

Finally, you both get to the door, and his hand stays flat on the wooden striations for a little longer than necessary. 

How wild to think things could have gone to shit entirely. How foolish of him to even fight for you to leave. 

But, after a moment of him looking down at the doorknob and you giving him the space to pause, Yoongi opens the door and gives a small peek outside. 

Bingo. “Stay there,” he commands, and he leads you forward until you forget he’s there.

Because the damn cat now commands all your attention, lapping at a water bowl until she looks at you. There’s a moment when he knows she’s cautious, but it doesn’t last long before she’s curious enough to inch closer to your side of the door. 

Of course it wouldn’t take long. Yoongi knows how magnetic and gentle you’ve always been. Maybe if he didn’t resist it so fucking much before, he wouldn’t have had to separate himself in the first place. 

“You’re so little,” you whisper. “Hi, baby.”

He smiles down at you both as the little one sniffs at your finger, feeling a calmness in his heart that seems secure and permanent. Is he allowed to feel this way all the time? 

Maybe if he had done things right and told your brother everything first. And maybe he should stop digging this hole and stay in the moment, goddamn. 

“Do you have a name yet?” You ask her instead of him, scratching behind an ear and giggling at a purr. “Did your dad give you one?” 

…Dad? 

Yeah, digging that hole is probably smart. He’s gonna need a whole grave for that one. 

But Yoongi swallows before answering for the one that can’t speak, “I’ve just been calling her cat.” 

When you glare over your shoulder, it’s immensely more cute than intimidating, which causes him to laugh and the cat to scurry a bit away. “You named my cat Cat?”

“Nah, just nothing permanent. Figured you’d wanna do that.”

“We can do it together.” Lips pursed, you sit in thought as she comes back, plopping on her side so you can rub her belly. “It would mean more that way.” 

“Cat means cat,” Yoongi shrugs out, before promptly getting swatted at and laughing. “Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” You yawn before saying goodbye for now, and judging from the look of yearning on your face, Yoongi knows you’d rather bring her inside. “See you again soon, cat named Cat.”

Cute.

Maybe something short and sweet? Miss Dion has been calling him something a lot lately... And it could fit with how nice this cat is being around you. 

“Sugar.”

You peer up before blinking. “Wait, that's so cute. Where'd that come from?”

Well. You didn't say no, so he's sticking with it.

Smiling, Yoongi helps you up before you both step back inside. “I’ll explain in a bit.” 

That seems to quell any other conversation about it, so you let him lead you back to bed. 

Only he doesn’t do that. Instead, Yoongi leads you just a few steps forward, letting you both stand in the living room and take in the aftermath of his mania together.

Your hand comes down to grip his in a comforting hold, and his shoulders immediately relax. "I don't know what led to this," you start slow, rolling words around in your mouth and plucking them very carefully. Even though you don't need to. He deserves to hear your every critical thought. "But I wanna know..."

When Yoongi turns to face you, he isn't prepared for your question,

"Did it help at all?"

Mm.

It's not that he can't answer because it's too hard. The reason he can't answer you right away is because he doesn't quite know the real answer. Does he feel better because of what he did? Or because you're here, like he said before? "I'm not sure yet," he decides to respond truthfully.

Eyes slipping down to your fingers looped in his, Yoongi admits with quiet confidence, "But none of it mattered as soon as I saw you."

Once again, with one look, he finds himself swimming in those beautiful eyes. Because you don't see him with pity, or rage, or even disappointment. You just... see him. You accept him as he comes.

And one day, when he gets the courage to look you in the eyes long enough, he'll be able to see himself the way you do, too.

"Let's rest, my love," you whisper soft. "I'll yell at you in the morning, I'm too tired to do it now."

There it is.

Chuckling, Yoongi obliges, shivering at how you address him and following whatever you ask. "Good. You're the only one allowed to kick my ass."

"As it should be."

When he's the one that leads you to the bedroom, his heart beats strong. But when you're the one that tucks him into bed with a kiss to his forehead, Yoongi's pulse becomes so tender it robs him of words.

"Hey... I'll always be here, you know," you murmur, sliding a warm hand over his bangs. "Even if it doesn't feel like it, I'm right here. All you have to do is close your eyes, and just..."

When he does, the press of your lips on his damn near brings him to tears. He commits this feeling to every memory center lodged in his brain, and this moment instantly locks itself as one of his deepest, most cherished ever.

"Remember that."

Eyes flittering open, Yoongi softly brings you in for another kiss. "I will, doll."

Your smile gives him purpose. "Good."

And for the first time in months and despite a hurting side, Yoongi sleeps right til the time he has to wake up, without even a breath or pulse out of alignment.

Because his drift to sleep had been a peaceful one, and the only thing he dreamt, felt, or thought of was you.

And the way you told him you loved him.

-

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fin :')

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fugue thoughts!! we did it!! | join the server!

a/n: we freakin' did it i love them i love them i love them!! yoongi's whole interlude is done and it was a monster in itself. now we're back on to the main storyline and honestly i am both relieved and yet still so tender for this yoongi. of course, there are other big situations we have to get ourselves into, but we are in the home stretch of three tangerines so let's finish this all out with a bang bang bang and lights in the sky :')) ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

a/n 2: we did this for 3tanfugue3 and the energy was great! just like last time, some of you guys suggested that we have post goals to encourage interaction. no one voted against it last time (honestly, you guys were super encouraging so thank you!) so let's go again!

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, searching for the right words. “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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He’s gonna make this work. Because he’s done fighting this shit.

Waking from a dreamless sleep, Yoongi stares at the empty half of his bed, fingers gliding across untouched sheets to seek warmth he knows isn’t there. 

But it will be. Yours will be. Because he’s fucking done with his own bullshit and will now trek the depths of his soul with a purpose redefined. The demons awaiting him have no chance, they have no say. 

Softly grabbing chilled cotton, Yoongi breathes in, the subtle heat of his own rest permeating his cheek for a few moments more. It isn’t until a few slow blinks and a million thoughts of you that he turns over, patting for his phone on the nightstand and immediately clicking the one notification that’s yours. 

Hustler [05:45]: 1 Attachment 

Mm. You sent him the dawn.

He’s gonna give you the world. 

For a long stretch of time, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. All he can do is stare at the way the sky blooms in pastel hues, admiring the framing you captured so perfectly from your front porch. 

Is there anything you aren’t good at? He can’t keep losing to you. 

Flopping back onto his pillow, Yoongi aims his phone upward, eyes still caked with sleep and drowsiness. 

Yoongi [06:13]: 1 Attachment 

Yoongi [06:13]: Mine’s better

The photo’s so dark you might not be able to tell what it is. But you’re smart, so you probably will. 

Fuck, he needs to get up.

Squeezing his eyes once before rubbing out the crust, Yoongi slowly vacates his warmth, grabbing a chain from the nightstand to clip it on.

Everything reminds him of you, even in the quietest and most mundane parts of his day. But the links around his neck are extra special. Because your blatant fascination with his jewelry will never, ever get old.  

If you only knew what else he wants to do with you involving the weight around his neck.

Yoongi’s mouth cracks into a sleepy grin as he heads to his bathroom. That particular fantasy will have to wait until much, much later. 

And unlucky for you, he is more than willing to wait.

He wonders if you know he notices. How he drinks in that sparkle in your eyes, shivers at those fingers you slide along his silver. Even if you never will, it’s fucking adorable either way.

Yoongi goes through his morning routine, and it isn’t until he takes vitamins in the kitchen—a part reinstated into his ritual ever since the mental turnaround—that he hears his phone buzz.

Hustler [06:34]: is that your ceiling?? lmao

Of course. He never doubted you for a second.

A small smile curves before Yoongi drinks another swig of water, holding the glass to his mouth while another message slides though. 

Hustler [06:34]: i wish i was there :((

Fuck.

You will be. You’ll be there much sooner than he originally planned, and the thought makes him anxious and restless in the best ways. 

Yoongi [06:35]: Same

Mm. He can do better than that. 

Yoongi [06:35]: I’d say meet me for lunch but then you’d be gone the rest of the day🤷‍♂️

Pocketing his phone, Yoongi grabs what he needs before heading to the studio. Because there are still projects to work on and things to plan, with a high possibility he won’t even get a lunch to begin with. 

Good problems. Lucky problems. He cannot take any of this for granted. 

Hustler [06:38]: worth it😩 whisk me away 

And there’s no way he can take you for granted anymore, either. 

Yoongi [06:39]: Careful what you wish for 

If he got to see you, he’d be gone the rest of the day, too. Until you scolded him to get back to work, at least. 

The thought pulls out a tiny huff. 

After grabbing his wallet and keys, Yoongi plods to his shoes before the door is cracked open, crisp morning air wrapping around his features. 

He’s not alone. 

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tbc :)

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LETS GOOO are we excited?? happy? all the things??

a/n: 3tan is coming back to regularly scheduled programming!! got lots and lots to share, and i've been writing. every chance i've gotten! hope you guys are excited for this one and all the scenes that are in it... and.....