#srass

[jungkoode]

Sling-Rings & Silver Strings

→ PAIRING : Dr.Strange!Yoongi x Sorcerer!F!Reader

→ RATING: Explicit, 18+.

→ DATE POSTED: November 1st, 2025.

→ SRASS index post / masterlist.

→ SUMMARY : You're the most gifted sorcerer Kamar-Taj has seen in decades, which would be great if you weren't also the most insufferable. Traditional methods? Outdated. Safety protocols? Suggestions. Your teacher's patience? Hanging by a thread. So when you steal a forbidden tome and accidentally strand yourself in an interdimensional hellscape, Yoongi—Sorcerer Supreme and the only person whose magical prowess you grudgingly respect—has to rescue you. Again. His solution to your chronic inability to follow rules? A very hands-on demonstration of why centuries-old techniques are called ‘disciplined’ for a reason. :)

→ TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains explicit power dynamics involving a teacher/authority figure and his student. Y/N is a brat who deliberately antagonizes and disrespects Yoongi, and he responds by (consensually) putting her in her place. The sexual content involves themes of discipline, restraint, and dominance. If D/s dynamics, brat taming, or authority/submission themes aren't your thing, this might not be for you. Everything is enthusiastically consensual with clear safewords established and checked throughout.

→ TAGS : second person perspective used, female pronouns used, dr. strange au, sorcerer supreme yoongi, seoul sanctum, forbidden magic, interdimensional travel gone wrong, yoongi to the rescue (begrudgingly), brat taming, teacher x student dynamic (both adults), age gap (he's early 30s she's mid 20s), heavy use of shibari/bondage, inappropriate use of eldritch whips, basically tentacle porn but make it ✨mystical✨, magical restraints, suspended sex, explicit sexual content, dom yoongi, sub reader, brat reader, so much brat energy actually, praise kink, slight degradation, "say tradition is better than innovation" as safeword (don't ask), yoongi's competence kink is showing, reader's authority issues are SHOWING, clothed man/naked woman, magical sex toys i guess??, defying authority (in all the ways), "let me demonstrate why traditional methods work" proceeds to fuck her stupid, the cloak of levitation is judging everyone, interdimensional creatures were NOT prepared for this energy, purple skies and poor decisions, hoseok tried to stop this (he failed), yoongi's patience snapping like a twig, consent checks disguised as banter, safewords that go unused out of pure spite, korean sorcerer supreme doing what he does best (being insufferably right), mystical theory as aphrodisiac apparently, one (1) very smug sorcerer supreme, one (1) very wrecked brat who still won't admit defeat.

→ PLAYLIST: set the vibes.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 13k

→ A/N: Welcome to my unhinged love letter to the concept of ‘what if Doctor Strange was Yoongi and had to deal with the most talented, most irritating student in magical history?’ 🪄 Listen. LISTEN. I've been daydreaming about Sorcerer Supreme Yoongi for MONTHS because that man's whole vibe is "I'm too tired for this but also I'm going to do it perfectly anyway" which is LITERALLY Stephen Strange's entire personality. Mix that with his teasing dom energy?? The way he'd be so done with someone's shit but also weirdly fond of their chaos?? Chef's kiss. Important note: Y/N is a BRAT. Like, intentionally antagonizing, authority-defying, ‘I’m smarter than ancient mystical tradition’ level brat. She pushes his buttons on PURPOSE. This is enemies-to-lovers if enemies means ‘I respect you so much it makes me want to prove you wrong constantly.’ Their dynamic is built on intellectual sparring that gets increasingly charged until something snaps. If watching someone get consensually put in their place (mystically and sexually) isn't your jam, maybe skip this one! But if you're like me and think ‘competent man reaches his limit with chaos gremlin he secretly admires and decides to demonstrate his superiority through extremely thorough methods’ is peak fiction?? BUCKLE UP.

P.S. - Yes, the eldritch whips are basically magical tentacles. Yes, I know what I did. No, I will not be taking criticism at this time. The constructs are SENTIENT and RESPONSIVE and honestly doing the lord's work here. 🙏

“A true sorcerer understands that spells are not mere words, but the fundamental architecture upon which reality bends—master them, or be mastered by chaos itself.”

See, that’s where he lost you.

Because spells and incantations? They’re for people who can’t manipulate magic at will. They’re training wheels. Mystical comfort blankets for sorcerers who need their reality pre-packaged and safety-tested before they’ll even think about bending it to their will.

And it’s probably—definitely—why you’re so set on ‘improving’ them.

Yes, you did just use the word ‘improve’ in your head.

Yes, it is the correct word.

Because magic isn’t some sacred, untouchable force that demands blind reverence.

Magic is a tool.

And tools can be refined, optimized, made better by people who actually understand how they work instead of just mindlessly following instructions written by dead guys in funny hats.

Sure, Yoongi’s sling-ring is cool and all that. He’s got a few tricks up his sleeve, and he is, after all, the Master of the Seoul Sanctum and Sorcerer Supreme.

But that’s just fancy wording for ‘he’s boring and strict as hell’ and ‘he punishes people for having fun.’ The man treats every spell like it’s a religious ceremony instead of recognizing that magic is supposed to be intuitive, fluid, alive.

You’re honestly not having any of it.

Which is, funnily enough, how you end up here.

In the… restricted section of the Seoul Sanctum.

You’re not one to be blamed though—it literally stretches out before you like some kind of mystical library wet dream—towering shelves lined with tomes filled with contained power, artifacts that make the air shimmer, and protective wards that would probably give most junior sorcerers nightmares.

The whole place feels heavy, like the air itself has been saturated with centuries of accumulated magical knowledge, all of it locked away behind Yoongi’s insufferably cautious security measures.

Not your proudest moment, sneaking in here.

But also not your lamest.

Because you did make it inside, past all those supposedly impenetrable protections, and yes, you are currently reaching for one of the forbidden tomes.

The lock-picking had been surprisingly easy. Not the physical kind—those would’ve been child’s play.

No, you’d had to navigate fifteen different magical barriers, three separate dimensional pockets, and one particularly nasty ward that had tried to turn your bones into origami.

But here’s the thing about protective spells: they’re designed by people who think in straight lines. Traditional patterns. Predictable magical pathways.

You don’t think in straight lines.

The tome you’re reaching for practically vibrates against your fingertips, leather binding warm like it’s got its own pulse.

’Advanced Theoretical Applications of Reality Manipulation’—because of course Yoongi would give it the most pretentious title possible. You can feel the magic radiating from it, complex and layered, the kind of theoretical framework that makes your brain itch with possibility.

Like, how hard can this stuff be, right?

The thought feels appropriately rebellious in your head as you crack open the cover, pages whispering against each other with that particular sound ancient books make.

The first few lines make you roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your skull.

“The fundamental principles of advanced reality manipulation must never be attempted without proper preparation, extensive study, and the guidance of a Master-level practitioner…”

Blah, blah, blah. More safety propaganda.

You flip past the warnings—and there are a lot of them, Jesus, it’s like they think magic is going to explode the universe if someone looks at it wrong—until you find the actual interesting part.

Chapter Three: Dimensional Folding Without sling-ring Assistance.

Now that’s what you’re talking about.

The diagrams are fascinating, all geometric swirls and energy flow patterns that make way more sense than they probably should. You trace one with your finger, feeling the way the magic wants to move, the natural pathways that traditional teaching completely ignores in favor of their precious ritualistic nonsense.

Everything they’ve been teaching is inefficient.

The spell structures here are elegant, streamlined, designed for sorcerers who understand magic as a living system rather than a collection of memorized incantations. You could probably modify half of these to cut their casting time in third, maybe even—

The lights flicker.

You freeze, hand still pressed against the page, every nerve suddenly very aware that you’re somewhere you absolutely should not be.

The Sanctum’s protective systems have noticed something. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the fact that you’re accessing knowledge that’s supposedly beyond your level, or maybe it’s because you’ve been unconsciously channeling magic while you read, letting your excitement bleed into the mystical energy around you.

Rookie mistake. Yoongi’s going to have your head if he catches you here.

But the diagrams are right there, and you can see exactly how the dimensional folding could be improved, and wouldn’t it be such a waste to leave now when you’re finally getting somewhere interesting for once?

You feel—weirdly enough, but also not, because you’re a sorcerer after all—how power builds in the space around you, responding to your presence, to your attention, to the way your magic naturally wants to engage with what you’re reading.

It feels like standing too close to a lightning storm, both electric and dangerous.

And yet, absolutely thrilling.

And yup, you should probably leave. You should definitely close the book, sneak back out the way you came, and pretend this never happened.

But that’s boring.

And when it comes to boring, Yoongi’s already got that covered.

“Enjoying some light reading?”

The tome slams shut so fast you barely have time to register what’s happening before Hoseok materializes behind you, his hand flat against the cover like he’s personally offended by your academic curiosity.

You almost jump out of your skin—almost—but you’re too annoyed to give him the satisfaction.

“Hey!” You spin around, magic already crackling at your fingertips. “I was using that!”

“No, you were not.”

His tone has that insufferably calm quality that all the senior sorcerers seem to perfect, like they’ve trained themselves to sound reasonable while being completely unreasonable.

The book hovers just out of reach now, suspended in that casual show-off way he does magic, like breathing.

“The hell I wasn’t!”

You lunge for it, fingers stretched toward the leather binding, but it drifts higher lazily and that makes you want to scream.

Hoseok doesn’t even look like he’s trying, which is probably the most irritating part of this entire situation.

Fine. Two can play this game.

Your magic lasso snaps into existence, golden energy coiling through the air like a whip made of pure will. It wraps around the tome with a satisfying crack of mystical force, and for a second you think you’ve got him beat—

The book phases right through your lasso like it’s made of light instead of solid matter.

“Seriously?” You glare at Hoseok, who has the audacity to look amused. “Dimensional shifting? For a book?”

“You know how Yoongi feels about this.” He gestures vaguely at the restricted section, at you, at the general concept of you being anywhere near forbidden magical knowledge. “Advanced theory isn’t a game.”

“I don’t care how he feels about—”

“You can’t re-do spells, Y/N.”

The words hit like a slap.

‘Re-do.’

Like you’re some kind of magical vandal with a crayon, scribbling over priceless artwork.

Like innovation is destruction instead of evolution.

“Yes, I can.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. “Just because something’s old doesn’t make it perfect. Half these spells are inefficient as hell, and the other half could be streamlined if anyone bothered to actually think about how they work instead of just mindlessly copying—”

“Right, because centuries of magical tradition is obviously inferior to whatever theory you picked up last week.” Hoseok’s sarcasm cuts clean through your argument. The tome bobs slightly in the air, still frustratingly out of reach. “I’m sure all those dead sorcerers were just idiots who never thought to optimize their reality manipulation.”

He’s baiting you. You know he’s baiting you.

But the casual dismissal in his voice makes something hot and sharp twist in your chest anyway.

“At least I’m thinking.” You reshape your lasso, this time aiming not for the book but for the spell keeping it airborne. “Instead of just accepting that ‘this is how we’ve always done it’ is a good enough reason to never improve anything.”

The energy construct shifts, becomes more complex, threading through the dimensional pocket Hoseok’s created like you’re solving a puzzle instead of casting a spell. It’s delicate work, the kind that requires actual understanding of magical theory rather than brute force, and you can see the exact moment Hoseok realizes what you’re doing.

His eyes widen slightly. “Kid, don’t—”

But you’re already unraveling his spell from the inside out, following the energy pathways back to their source and gently convincing them to redirect.

The tome drops like a stone, and you catch it with a burst of satisfaction that probably shows on your face.

“Got it.”

“You can’t just—” Hoseok stops mid-sentence, staring at you with something that might be grudging respect or possibly horror. “How did you even know how to counter dimensional phasing?”

“I read.” You hug the book against your chest, protective and defiant. “You know, that thing you do with books? Instead of just using them as magical paperweights?”

For a second, Hoseok looks genuinely impressed.

Then he remembers he’s supposed to be the responsible adult in this situation and clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“Clever. Reckless, but clever.” The tome is suddenly not in your arms anymore, transported back to his hands with a casual display of magical control that you absolutely do not find show-offy at all. “Which is exactly why you’re not ready for this level of theory.”

“I am ready—”

“You’re ready to accidentally tear a hole in reality because you thought the traditional containment protocols were ‘inefficient.’”

He’s already moving toward the exit, book tucked securely under his arm like he’s personally responsible for keeping you from destroying the universe.

“Out. Now.”

The unfairness of it all makes you wince.

You solved his puzzle. You demonstrated exactly the kind of theoretical understanding that should prove you can handle advanced material.

And his response is to treat you like a child who can’t be trusted with sharp objects.

“This is bullshit.” You don’t move from where you’re standing, arms crossed and chin raised in what you hope looks like noble defiance instead of petulant brattiness. “You can’t just—”

“I can and I am.” Hoseok pauses at the entrance, giving you a look that’s equal parts exasperated and fond. “Yoongi’s going to have my head if he finds out you were in here. Move.”

“Make me.”

It’s childish.

You know it’s childish even as the words leave your mouth.

But the alternative is admitting defeat, and you’ve never been particularly good at that.

Hoseok’s expression shifts into something that might charitably be called a smile if you ignored the way his magic starts to build in the air around him.

“Y/N. Out. Now.”

The authority in his voice is unmistakable, backed by enough mystical power to relocate you whether you cooperate or not.

You could fight him—probably should fight him, on principle—but the rational part of your brain points out that getting into a magical duel in the restricted section would be the kind of spectacular stupidity that even you might regret later.

“Fine.” You scowl at him, channeling every ounce of frustrated brilliance into a single withering glare. “But this conversation isn’t over.”

“Yes, it is.”

You flip him off as you stalk past him toward the exit, the gesture sharp and decisive and deeply satisfying.

Hoseok just scoffs out a laugh, which somehow makes the whole situation even more infuriating.

The restricted section’s wards resettle behind you like a door slamming shut, cutting off access to all that beautiful, forbidden knowledge.

But the theories you glimpsed are still burning bright in your memory, and dismissal or no dismissal, you’re going to figure out a way to get back to them.

After all, rules are just suggestions for people who lack imagination.

Victory tastes like stolen knowledge and defiance.

You smirk as you flip through the forbidden tome sprawled across your lap, legs crossed on your bed like you’re reading some casual magazine instead of reality-bending theoretical applications that could probably level a city block if mishandled.

Hoseok really thought a simple banishment from the restricted section would stop you? Please. The man clearly doesn’t know you at all.

Conjuring a portal directly to the library had been almost embarrassingly easy—just a matter of visualizing the exact coordinates and convincing space to fold in on itself for a few seconds. Child’s play, really, especially when you’re properly motivated by spite and academic curiosity. The book had practically jumped into your hands, like it wanted to be stolen.

Now it’s here, in your room, and you’re dying to learn how to teleport to other fucking multiverses without your stupid sling-ring Yoongi confiscated as ‘punishment’ for daring to use your brain instead of following orders like some kind of mystical drone.

The punishment thing still pisses you off, honestly.

Like, what exactly were you being punished for?

Thinking?

Innovation?

Having the audacity to suggest that maybe—just maybe—there might be more efficient ways to channel interdimensional energy than whatever fossilized techniques they’ve been recycling for centuries?

You turn to Chapter Seven: Multiversal Navigation Through Consciousness Projection.

The diagrams are insane—all these spiraling energy patterns and quantum probability maps that make your head spin just looking at them. But underneath the complexity, you can see the elegance of it. The way consciousness becomes the anchor point instead of physical tools. The way your will becomes the navigation system instead of relying on some external artifact.

It’s brilliant. It’s exactly what you’ve been trying to figure out on your own, except laid out in theoretical frameworks that actually make sense.

The instructions are dense as hell, though. Something about… ‘envisioning alternate iterations of self as dimensional coordinates’ and ‘maintaining ego coherence across probability matrices.’

Typical mystical academic bullshit—why use ten words when you could use fifty and sound more important?

But the core concept is clear enough. Think of another version of yourself. Use that as your targeting system. Let your consciousness bridge the gap between realities.

You crack your knuckles and sit up straighter, tome balanced against your knees as you start gathering mystical energy around your hands.

The familiar tingle of magic responds to your call, golden light pooling between your palms as you begin sketching the basic portal framework.

Except it’s not basic at all.

The spell fights you from the first gesture, energy patterns shifting and sliding away from where they’re supposed to lock into place.

It’s like trying to hold water with your bare hands—every time you think you’ve got the structure stable, another part of it collapses or inverts or just plain disappears into whatever mystical dimension failed spells go to die.

“Come on,” you mutter under your breath, sweat already beading at your temples from the effort.

The theoretical framework is right there in front of you, clear as day, but translating theory into practice is apparently harder than the book makes it sound.

You grunt in frustration as the portal attempt fizzles out completely, leaving nothing but sparks and the lingering taste of ozone in the air.

This is ridiculous.

You can fold space for simple transport, you can unravel dimensional phasing spells, you can modify protective wards on the fly—why the hell is multiversal projection giving you this much trouble?

Maybe you need to approach it differently.

You flop down on your stomach, chin propped on your hands as you reread the chapter more carefully.

The text keeps emphasizing the importance of the ‘alternate self’ visualization, treating it like it’s the most crucial part of the whole process. Not just imagining another version of yourself, but really understanding what that means.

What changes. What stays the same.

“The consciousness must maintain coherent identity while simultaneously acknowledging infinite possibility,” you read aloud, frowning at the page. “The practitioner becomes both observer and observed, anchor and destination, singular and infinite.”

Okay, that’s… actually kind of profound.

In an annoyingly cryptic way.

You close your eyes and try to picture it.

Another version of yourself, somewhere in the vast web of multiversal possibility.

What would be different? What decisions might have led to different outcomes?

Maybe a version of yourself who never came to Kamar-Taj. Who never discovered magic at all. Living some ordinary life, completely unaware of the mystical forces that shape reality.

Or maybe—and this one makes you smirk—a version who became Sorcerer Supreme instead of Yoongi. Who revolutionized magical education and proved that innovation is better than blind tradition. Who never had to deal with condescending lectures about ‘proper protocols’ and ‘safety measures.’

The energy builds more smoothly this time, responding to the clarity of your visualization.

You can almost feel her, that other version of yourself, existing somewhere in the infinite sprawl of possibility. Confident, powerful, unrestrained by the limitations that everyone here keeps trying to impose on you.

Your hands move through the portal gestures with growing certainty, the mystical framework snapping into place like puzzle pieces finding their proper positions. The air in front of you shimmers, reality bending and folding until a perfect circle of otherworldly light hangs suspended above your bed.

Through the portal, you can see… yourself. Another version, standing in what looks like a much more modern Sanctum, wearing robes that actually look functional instead of ceremonial. She’s older, more confident, and when she notices the portal opening, she grins and waves like interdimensional contact is the most natural thing in the world.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, and then immediately jump up in excitement, the tome tumbling forgotten to the floor. “Holy shit, it worked!”

The portal flickers but holds stable, your connection to that other self maintaining the mystical bridge between realities.

You did it. You actually fucking did it.

No sling-ring, no traditional anchoring methods, just pure will and theoretical understanding applied with the kind of innovative thinking that everyone keeps telling you is ‘dangerous’ and ‘premature.’

You want to shout, to run down the hall and shove this success in Hoseok’s face, to prove to Yoongi that maybe—just maybe—his precious traditional methods aren’t the only way to master advanced magic.

Instead, you settle for a victory dance in your room, grinning at your interdimensional double who seems to be doing the same thing on her side of the portal.

Take that, established mystical orthodoxy.

You step through the portal with a grin that immediately gets wiped off your face when the ground disappears.

Free fall.

Complete, stomach-dropping, ‘oh-shit-I’m-going-to-die’ free fall through what looks like absolutely nothing.

No up, no down, just endless—wait, that’s not right, there’s definitely a down because you’re falling toward something but the fall is so fucking long you start to wonder if maybe you’ve accidentally stumbled into some kind of eternal punishment dimension for cocky sorcerers who don’t read the fine print.

When you finally hit what should be solid ground, it’s not.

It’s a mushroom. A giant, spongy, neon-pink mushroom that immediately launches you back into the air like the world’s most psychedelic trampoline.

You scream—actually scream—as you rocket upward through a sky that’s the wrong shade of purple, like someone took a regular sky and dunked it in grape Kool-Aid mixed with existential dread.

Gravity is fucked. Completely, utterly fucked.

You’re not falling in a straight line anymore, you’re sort of… drifting? Floating sideways through air that feels thick as honey while colors that don’t have names swirl around you like living paint.

There are shapes moving in the distance—things that might be trees if trees were made of crystallized screaming and grew upside down—but no people. No sentient beings.

Nothing that looks even remotely familiar or safe or capable of helping you figure out where the hell you are.

You swallow thickly, throat dry as sandpaper.

Where the fuck are you?

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to step through a portal to another version of yourself, maybe have a quick interdimensional chat, prove that your theoretical understanding was better than anyone gave you credit for. Simple. Clean. Academically satisfying.

What the fuck even happened? You were just walking through—

Oh. Oh shit.

Did you miss something in the reading?

Your stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with the weird gravity.

The warnings are always after the theory sections, aren’t they? Always buried in tiny print like mystical terms and conditions that nobody bothers to read until they’re already neck-deep in consequences.

You got way too excited. Rushed through the complex bits because you were so eager to prove everyone wrong, and now you’re—

No, seriously, where the fuck are you?

The panic crushes down on your chest until breathing becomes this conscious effort you have to focus on.

You’re about to die.

Or be consumed by one of these weird crystalline tree-things.

Or dissolve in whatever passes for acid in this nightmare dimension.

And it’s going to be slow and horrifying and completely preventable if you’d just followed protocol for once in your life.

A knot forms in your throat as something that might be a sob tries to escape.

What forsaken reality is this?

Is this how you die? Some unmarked dimension that probably doesn’t even have a name, dissolved by alien chemistry while weird colors you can’t comprehend swirl overhead like a demented light show?

You aimed for so much more. You’re so much more talented than this shit. This can’t be how your story ends—stranded in interdimensional nowhere because you couldn’t be bothered to read the safety warnings like some kind of mystical Darwin Award winner.

But there’s really no coming out of here, is there?

You’re trapped. So completely, utterly trapped, and you don’t even remember the specific spell configuration to re-open the portal, and you don’t even have your stupid sling-ring because Yoongi confiscated it, and—

You’re falling again.

Your heart drops at the prospect of another limitless free fall, body preparing for impact that might never come—when something wraps around your ankle with the precision of a whip.

The sudden jerk nearly dislocates your hip, but at least you’re not plummeting toward whatever passes for ground in this place anymore.

You twist around, trying to see what caught you, and your blood turns to ice water.

It’s not rope. It’s not even a mystical construct.

It’s Yoongi.

A sob breaks through you—ugly and relieved and completely mortifying—as he lets out the most put-upon sigh you’ve ever heard.

He’s floating, because of course he is, controlling his descent with the kind of effortlessness that makes you want to simultaneously worship and strangle him.

The Cloak of Levitation billows around him like he’s posing for some dramatic mystical portrait, and even in an interdimensional nightmare realm, the man manages to look completely unbothered.

You both land on top of another giant mushroom, but this one behaves itself. Doesn’t catapult either of you into the grape-flavored sky, just sits there like a perfectly reasonable fungal landing pad.

Maybe it senses Yoongi’s stupid overwhelming power and decides that launching the Sorcerer Supreme isn’t a smart survival strategy.

Unlike with you, apparently.

The mushroom discrimination is honestly insulting.

Your knees hit the spongy surface hard, hands scrambling for purchase as the overwhelming relief crashes into you like a demolishing spell.

You barely manage to crawl the few feet separating you before you’re dramatically wrapping your arms around his legs between sobs, clutching at the fabric of his robes like he might disappear if you don’t hold on.

“Let go,” he mumbles, but his voice lacks any real authority.

More like he’s going through the motions of being annoyed rather than actually feeling it.

You don’t let go. Can’t let go.

The alternative is acknowledging that you almost died in the stupidest possible way, and your pride has taken enough hits for one interdimensional adventure.

He sighs and looks up at the wrong-colored sky, probably calculating exactly how much paperwork this rescue mission is going to generate.

“I’m sorry,” you sob into his robes, words muffled against the fabric. “I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just wanted to prove that the theory was sound and I could handle advanced magic without supervision and—”

"You stole a restricted tome, tarae."

The old nickname rolls off his tongue with the same dry familiarity it's had for months now—ever since he'd found you in the library one too many times, surrounded by a nest of tangled earbuds and charging cables, looking like you'd been wrapped up in your own personal skein of technological thread.

He'd taken one look at the chaos of wires spiraling around your study space and dubbed you tarae on the spot. The name had stuck, despite your initial protests that it made you sound like a craft supply.

"Technically, I borrowed it."

"From a magically sealed section."

"The seals were more like suggestions, really."

Yoongi's silence speaks volumes.

You can practically feel his exasperation radiating through the mystical bond that apparently exists between Sorcerer Supremes and their most problematic students.

"How did you even find me?" You finally lift your head to look up at him, tears still streaming down your face in a way that's probably not doing wonders for your credibility as a competent sorcerer. "This place doesn't even seem to exist in any recognizable dimension."

"Mystical tracker." He reaches into his robes and pulls out what looks like a compass, except instead of pointing north, the needle is pointing directly at you. "I've had it keyed to your magical signature for months."

"You've been tracking me?"

"You have a tendency to end up in situations that require immediate intervention." His tone is so dry it could start fires. "Call it an educated investment in damage control."

The fact that he saw this coming—that he was prepared for you to accidentally strand yourself in an interdimensional hellscape—should probably be insulting.

Instead, it's weirdly comforting.

Like maybe your reckless experimentation isn't quite as random and chaotic as everyone thinks.

Maybe there's method to your madness, even if the method occasionally involves nearly dying in alien dimensions.

"So you can get us out of here, right?" You're still clinging to his legs, partly because you're scared of what might happen if you let go, and partly because physical contact with him feels like the only solid, real thing in this entire nightmare realm. "Portal us back to the Sanctum, lecture me about proper safety protocols, confiscate more of my magical equipment?"

Yoongi's pause lasts about three seconds too long.

"Right?" Your voice cracks on the word.

"The dimensional barriers here are… complex, tarae." He's choosing his words carefully, which is never a good sign when dealing with someone who usually speaks in blunt, unvarnished truths. "Whatever reality you've stumbled into, it doesn't follow standard mystical physics. The energy patterns are completely foreign."

"So we're trapped."

"We're temporarily inconvenienced."

"That's just a fancy way of saying trapped."

"It's a more optimistic way of saying trapped."

You bury your face back in his robes, fresh tears soaking into the fabric.

This is exactly the kind of spectacular failure that's going to follow you for the rest of your mystical career—however short that career turns out to be if you die in whatever this place is.

"I really fucked up," you mumble.

"Yes, you did."

His blunt agreement makes you cry harder, shoulders shaking with the kind of ugly sobs that you haven't produced since you were a kid.

All that confidence, all that certainty that you could handle advanced theory better than anyone gave you credit for, and you've managed to trap both yourself and the most powerful sorcerer in the known multiverse in some kind of psychedelic purgatory.

"Though, I must say… The mystical readings from your portal attempt were… impressive," Yoongi continues, and something in his tone makes you look up again. "Theoretically sound, innovative in its approach to consciousness-based navigation. The execution, however…"

"Was catastrophically stupid?"

"Lacked proper preparation and safety considerations." He meets your eyes, and there's something almost like approval buried under all that exasperation. "But the underlying magical theory was solid. Advanced, even."

It's probably the closest thing to a compliment you've ever gotten from him, and it hits you right in whatever emotional center controls your ability to maintain composure.

Fresh tears spill over as you realize that even stranded in an impossible dimension, facing potential death by alien chemistry, some part of you is pathetically grateful for his grudging recognition of your abilities.

"Does that mean you're not going to expel me from Kamar-Taj when we get back?"

"That depends entirely on whether we survive whatever this place decides to throw at us next, tarae."

The mushroom beneath you suddenly starts to glow with an ominous purple light, and Yoongi's expression shifts from resigned annoyance to focused concern.

"Speaking of which," he says, magical energy already building around his hands, "I think our temporary inconvenience is about to become significantly more complicated."

You barely have time to process what the hell is happening when something cuts through the air like a missile—sharp and deadly and aimed directly at your head.

Yoongi stops it with one hand.

Not with some elaborate spell or mystical artifact.

Just—raises his palm and conjures a golden shield that catches whatever interdimensional projectile was about to turn your brain into abstract art. The attack dissolves against his barrier like it was nothing more than an annoying insect, and he doesn't even blink.

He tilts his head, scanning the horizon with that focused intensity you've seen him use during council meetings when someone's being particularly stupid. Searching for the source of the attack with the kind of detached assessment that makes your stomach do weird flips.

Then he's stopping three more projectiles in quick succession—left hand, right hand, some kind of mystical deflection that sends one careening off into the purple sky—and the mushroom beneath you deflates like a punctured balloon.

Your stomach drops as you start to fall, but Yoongi's arm wraps around your waist before you've dropped more than a few inches.

He pulls you against his side with surprising ease, floating both of you through the air like gravity is just another rule that doesn't apply to him.

You grab onto his robes like your life depends on it, which—let's be honest—it probably does. But his grip on you is secure, strong enough that you couldn't fall even if you wanted to. His forearm is pressed against your ribs, and you can feel the controlled power thrumming through him, mystical energy flowing under his skin like a river of controlled lightning.

You look down at where his arm holds you, at the way his sleeve has ridden up slightly to reveal pale skin and the elegant lines of his wrist.

Then up at his face, expecting to see strain or effort or some sign that maintaining flight while defending against interdimensional attacks is even remotely challenging for him.

But he just looks completely unbothered. Focused, yeah, but like he's solving a mildly interesting puzzle rather than fighting for both your lives.

Oh.

Oh wow.

You've always known Yoongi was attractive in that austere, untouchable way that Sorcerer Supremes probably have to be attractive. It comes with the job description, along with the dramatic robes and the ability to make reality sit down and behave.

But seeing him work magic this close, feeling the power in his arm as he holds you against him while casually deflecting attacks that would have killed you instantly—

This is a whole different level of hot.

He spins suddenly, using his free hand to generate a barrier that protects your back from another projectile, and the movement presses you closer against his chest.

You can smell whatever soap he uses, something clean and understated that probably costs more than your monthly stipend, and feel the steady rhythm of his breathing even as he's orchestrating your defense.

Because the way his magic responds to him is almost obscene.

No wasted gestures, no unnecessary flourishes—just pure, raw power flowing from his hands like he was born channeling mystical energy instead of breathing air.

Every shield appears exactly where it needs to be, every deflection sends attacks precisely where they'll cause the least collateral damage.

It's efficient. Elegant. Everything you've been trying to achieve in your own spellwork but with a level of mastery that makes your previous accomplishments look like finger painting.

Also—and this is probably not the time for this realization but your brain doesn't seem to care—it's sexy as hell.

Before you can open your mouth to make some sarcastic comment about his showing off, he's stopping another attack with his free hand, this one close enough that you feel the heat as it dissolves against his barrier.

The magic crackles around his fingers, golden energy that responds to his will like it's part of his nervous system.

"We need to move," he says, voice perfectly steady despite the fact that he's currently keeping both of you alive through sheer mystical competence.

"How couldn't I have thought of that, oh great Sorcerer Supreme?" The sarcasm comes automatically, but your voice sounds breathier than usual.

Probably the adrenaline. Definitely the adrenaline.

Has nothing to do with how his arm feels around your waist or the way his magic makes the air feel all fuzzy.

He rolls his eyes—actually rolls them, like you're being ridiculous in the middle of an interdimensional firefight—but then he's spinning around to protect you from another attack. The movement is fluid and easy to him, and his arm tightens around you just enough to make sure you don't get thrown around by the momentum.

His free hand moves through a series of gestures so fast they blur together, weaving some kind of complex spell that makes the air around you shimmer with protective energy. The magic builds and builds, layers of mystical force that feel powerful enough to level a city block if he wanted them to.

"Hold on tight, tarae," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip in a way that has nothing to do with mortal peril. "You're not going to like this."

His grip on you shifts, becomes more secure, and you realize he's preparing for something that's going to require you to trust him completely.

Which should terrify you, considering your track record with trusting authority figures.

Instead, it makes that warm, dangerous feeling in your chest spread lower, and you find yourself gripping his robes tighter not because you're scared of falling, but because the alternative is doing something spectacularly stupid like trying to kiss him in the middle of a magical crisis.

"Ready?" he asks, though it's pretty clear he's not actually waiting for an answer.

You're definitely not ready.

For whatever he's about to do, for the way looking at him makes your brain turn to static, for the growing certainty that this interdimensional disaster might be the least of your problems.

But you nod anyway, because apparently making bad decisions is just your brand at this point.

The headache hits you like someone's driving a mystical railroad spike through your skull.

You barely register your surroundings before you're stumbling, hand shooting out to brace against something—anything—that turns out to be a weird translucent wall that feels like touching solidified air. Or not a wall, exactly. More like the inside of a bubble, except this bubble is somehow suspended in the middle of that fucked-up purple sky, and you can see straight through it to the crystalline nightmare landscape below.

Great. This is just great.

"What the fuck is this headache?" You press your palm harder against the translucent surface, trying to ground yourself while your brain feels like it's being squeezed in a vice made of pure magical feedback.

"Dimensional adjustment." Yoongi's voice comes from behind you, infuriatingly calm. "It's normal the first time your consciousness experiences rapid multiversal displacement. Should pass in a minute."

"Should?" You turn to glare at him, though the movement makes the spike in your head twist viciously. "That's not exactly reassuring."

He's already moving around the bubble's interior, hands tracing patterns in the air that leave faint golden afterimages.

The space is bigger than it looked from outside—maybe four meters in diameter, with that weird translucent membrane curving over your heads like you're inside the world's most uncomfortable snow globe.

"The isolation barrier gives us a working space," he explains without looking at you. "We're invisible to anything outside, and I can actually focus on finding a way out of this dimension without fighting off attacks every thirty seconds."

The headache starts to fade, just like he said it would, which is almost more annoying than the pain itself.

You hate when he's right. Hate it even more that he's always so fucking casual about being right, like it's just a basic fact of existence rather than something worth acknowledging.

"I can help," you offer, pushing away from the bubble wall. Your legs feel steadier now, magic settling back into familiar pathways through your body. "Two minds working the problem—"

"You've done enough, tarae."

The words land like a slap. Flat. Final. Completely dismissive of everything you've accomplished today, as if successfully executing multiversal projection doesn't count because you also accidentally stranded you both in an interdimensional hellscape.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He's examining the dimensional barriers now, fingers moving through diagnostic spells. "Your 'help' is what got us into this situation. The best thing you can do right now is stay quiet and let me work."

Stay quiet.

Like you're some kind of distracting kid instead of a fellow sorcerer who might actually have valuable insights into the problem.

Never mind that you're the one who figured out consciousness-based navigation in the first place.

Never mind that your ‘innovations’ have solved problems that his traditional methods couldn't touch.

"That's bullshit," you snap, crossing your arms. "I made one miscalculation—"

"One miscalculation that could have killed you, tarae." His hands pause mid-gesture, and when he turns to look at you, his expression is harder than you've ever seen it. "One miscalculation that trapped us both in a dimension with unknown physics and potentially hostile entities. One miscalculation that happened because you couldn't be bothered to read the safety protocols before attempting advanced magic."

"The safety protocols are—"

"The reason most sorcerers don't die during their first year of training." He cuts you off. "But please, tell me again how your superior understanding makes centuries of accumulated wisdom obsolete."

The sarcasm in his voice makes something hot and sharp twist in your chest.

This is what you get for thinking he might actually respect your abilities.

This is what you get for that stupid inner confession about wanting his attention, his approval.

He's just like every other teacher who's too invested in their own methods to see when someone has a better approach.

"At least I'm trying to push the boundaries instead of just recycling the same tired techniques—"

"Pushing boundaries requires surviving the attempt." His attention is back on the diagnostic spells, dismissing you again. "Which you barely managed. Now quiet and let me work."

Let him work.

Like you're incapable of contributing anything useful.

Like your presence is more hindrance than help, despite the fact that you're probably the most naturally talented sorcerer he's ever taught.

You want to argue more. Want to prove that you can solve this just as effectively as he can, maybe even faster if he'd just listen to your ideas about restructuring the dimensional navigation framework.

But the set of his shoulders suggests that pushing right now would be spectacularly counterproductive.

So instead, you do what you do best when faced with authority you can't immediately undermine.

You get petty.

"Fine," you say, voice dripping with false sweetness. "I'll just stand here quietly while the great Sorcerer Supreme fixes everything with his perfect traditional methods. Please, don't let my presence disturb your incredibly important work."

"Your presence isn't disturbing, tarae." He doesn't even look at you. "Your attitude, however, is proving to be as exhausting as predicted."

"My attitude wouldn't be a problem if you'd acknowledge that I actually know what I'm doing—"

"You don't, tarae." The words are flat, final, completely devoid of the dry humor he usually employs when criticizing your methods. "You know theory. You know innovation. But you don't know discipline, you don't know patience, and you clearly don't know your own limitations."

The dismissal burns worse than the dimensional headache. Worse than nearly dying.

Because at least the cosmic horror was impartial in its threat.

This is personal.

This is Yoongi—whose opinion you've been chasing since the moment you realized he was actually worth impressing—telling you that all your talent, all your innovation, all your brilliance amounts to nothing without his approval of your methods.

"Fuck you," you say quietly, because anything louder might break the careful control you're maintaining over your voice. "Fuck you and your superiority complex and your obsession with doing things exactly the way they've always been done. I don't need your validation to know I'm good at this."

"Good isn't the same as safe." He's still not looking at you, hands moving through another diagnostic pattern. "And safe is what keeps you alive long enough to become great."

"Maybe I'd rather be brilliant and reckless than boring and alive."

That finally gets his attention.

He turns to face you fully, and there's something in his expression that makes your breath catch—not anger, exactly, but something deeper and more dangerous.

"You think I'm boring," he says slowly, and it's not a question. "You think centuries of magical tradition, of sorcerers who gave their lives to perfect these techniques, of knowledge accumulated through trial and error and unimaginable sacrifice—you think all of that is boring."

"Yeah, I think it's boring." You lift your chin, refusing to back down even though something in his tone is setting off warning bells. "I think it can be improved. I think blindly following tradition without questioning it is how we end up stagnant instead of evolving."

"And I think, tarae," Yoongi says, voice dropping to something quieter and infinitely more threatening, "that you have no idea what you're talking about."

The bubble suddenly feels much smaller.

Air crackles with more than just residual magic from his diagnostic spells.

He takes a step toward you, and you force yourself not to retreat, not to show any sign that his proximity is affecting you.

"Your innovation means nothing without discipline, tarae," he continues, closing the distance between you with deliberate slowness. "Your brilliance means nothing without control. And your potential means nothing if you're dead because you couldn't follow basic safety protocols."

"I'm not dead," you point out, hating how your voice has gone slightly breathless. "I survived. I figured it out."

"You got lucky." Another step. "And you dragged me into cleaning up your mess."

"Nobody asked you to—"

"You think I had a choice?" And there it is—real emotion breaking through his outward calm exterior. "You think I could just leave you to die in whatever dimension your recklessness dumped you into?"

The confession fizzles between you, unexpected and raw. He looks almost surprised by it himself, like he hadn't meant to let that slip out.

For a second, you're both just staring at each other, the argument forgotten in the face of that accidental honesty.

Then his expression shutters, detachment slamming back into place like a shield.

"You want to act like a brat, tarae?" His voice is level again, controlled, but there's an edge to it that makes your pulse quicken. "Fine. I'll treat you like one."

The eldritch whips manifest before he even finishes the sentence. They're beautiful and terrifying, coiling through the air like liquid shadow edged with golden light.

One wraps around your wrists with surprising gentleness, binding them behind your back while another loops around your waist, anchoring you in place.

"What the fuck—" You yank against the restraints, testing their strength. They don't budge. "Let me go!"

"No." Yoongi settles back into his meditation position, hands resuming their diagnostic patterns like he hasn't just magically tied you up in the middle of an interdimensional crisis. "You want to act like a child? Fine. You can sit quietly like one while the adults work."

"This is insane!" You struggle harder, which only makes the whips tighten fractionally—not painful, just more secure. "You can't just—I'm not some disobedient punk you can discipline whenever you feel like it!"

"Evidence suggests otherwise, tarae." His tone is maddeningly calm. "Now be quiet. Some of us are trying to prevent our deaths."

Be quiet again.

Like you're some kind of background noise instead of an equal participant in this situation.

Like your voice, your opinions, your very presence is just an inconvenience to be managed.

"Fuck you!" The words come out as a shriek, echoing off the bubble walls. "Fuck your superiority complex and your controlling bullshit and your—"

Another whip appears, this one sliding between your lips and around your head like a gag. The magical construct tastes like electricity and power, and you immediately bite down on it and spit it out with violent satisfaction.

"—and your pathetic attempts to shut me up when you know I'm right!" you continue without missing a beat, voice hoarse but determined. "Traditional methods my ass, you're just too scared to admit that maybe, just maybe, someone else might have better ideas—"

The gag reappears, more insistent this time, but you spit it out again and keep screaming.

All the frustration and rage and humiliation of being dismissed, of having your abilities questioned, of wanting someone's respect so desperately that you nearly died trying to prove yourself—it all comes pouring out in a torrent of fury that echoes through the confined space.

"You think you're so fucking perfect with your ancient wisdom and your careful protocols but you know what? You're just another control freak who can't stand the thought that someone might be better than you—"

Yoongi's meditation stops abruptly.

The diagnostic patterns flicker and die as he opens his eyes and looks at you with an expression that makes your breath catch.

He's done. Completely, utterly done.

He rises to his feet with maddening calmness, and the way he moves reminds you suddenly that he's not just your teacher, not just the Sorcerer Supreme.

He's someone who's fought interdimensional horrors and won.

Someone who's bent reality to his will on a scale you can barely comprehend.

Someone who's apparently reached the absolute limit of his patience with you.

"You want my attention, tarae?" His voice is quiet, controlled, but there's something underneath it that makes your pulse quicken. "You have it."

He crosses the bubble in three strides and places his hand directly over your mouth, palm warm against your lips.

The contact is shocking—skin on skin instead of magical constructs, personal instead of professional.

You can smell his cologne, feel the calluses on his fingers from years of spellcasting.

Your first instinct is to bite him. Your second is to kick him in the shin for the sheer audacity of thinking he can just physically silence you like this.

You go with the kick.

Your leg swings up toward his knee, but his free hand catches your ankle before it makes contact. The grip is firm, controlling, and when he spreads your leg wider to neutralize the threat, the position puts you off-balance in a way that makes you suddenly, intensely aware of how compromised you are.

Wrists bound behind your back. Mouth covered by his palm. One leg caught in his grip and spread wide while the other struggles to keep you upright. The magical restraints keep you exactly where he wants you, unable to move without his permission.

It's the most vulnerable you've ever been. It should be terrifying.

Instead, heat floods through you like liquid fire.

Yoongi seems to realize what the position looks like at the same moment you do. His eyes widen slightly, gaze dropping down to where your leg is spread in his grip, to the way your body is arched against the restraints, to the fact that this looks less like subduing a difficult student and more like…

Something else entirely.

He swallows hard, and you feel the movement against your lips where his thumb rests at the corner of your mouth.

That's when you decide to make the situation infinitely more complicated.

You let your tongue dart out and lick his palm, your lashes lowering as you look up at him with a gaze that's pure challenge.

His hand jerks away from your mouth like he's been burned.

"Did you just—" His voice comes out rougher than usual, and there's color rising in his cheeks that definitely wasn't there during his meditation.

"What?" You tilt your head, the picture of innocence despite the fact that you're bound and held in a position that would make a porn director weep with joy. "You put your hand on my mouth. I was just… cleaning it."

The lie is so obvious, so deliberately provocative, that you both know exactly what game you're playing now.

The question is whether he's going to call your bluff or pretend this is still about disciplining a difficult student.

The way his grip tightens on your ankle suggests he's not in a pretending mood.

His grip on your ankle loosens slightly, and you can practically see him mentally reciting some kind of Sorcerer Supreme code of conduct.

Professional boundaries. Appropriate teacher-student relationships. The kind of rigid protocols he lives by.

Which is exactly why you decide to completely shatter them.

"What is this?" You tilt your head, voice dripping with fake curiosity. "Is tying up students just your way of letting your restraint slip? Very polite, very wise, but you're literally binding me up because…" You let your voice trail off, eyes widening in mock realization. "Oh my god. You're a pervert."

His hand drops your ankle like it's on fire. "That's not—"

"You get off on this, don't you?" The accusation comes out in your most innocent tone, the one that makes it impossible to tell if you're genuinely scandalized or just stirring up trouble. "The great Sorcerer Supreme, so controlled and traditional, but deep down you're just some creep who gets his kicks from tying down his students."

The color drains from his face. "You know that's not true."

"Do I?" You lean forward as much as the restraints allow, voice dropping to a stage whisper. "Because from where I'm standing—well, where I'm being forcibly held—this looks exactly like a professor taking advantage of his position. What would the other Masters think if they saw you right now?"

Something dangerous flickers across his expression.

Not guilt—he knows you're baiting him, knows this is just another one of your manipulative games.

But the suggestion that anyone might question his integrity, his professionalism, his dedication to protecting his students…

That hits a nerve.

"You think I'm a pervert," he says slowly, voice getting quieter in that way that should probably terrify you. "You think I'm using my authority to take advantage of you."

"I mean, if the mystical bondage fits…" You shrug as much as you can with your arms still bound behind your back.

Yoongi stares at you for a long moment.

Then something shifts in his expression—resignation mixed with a kind of dark amusement that makes your stomach flip.

"You know what, tarae?" His voice is conversational now, almost friendly. "You're right."

The admission catches you completely off guard.

You'd been expecting denial, maybe another lecture about appropriate behavior. You hadn't expected him to just… agree.

"I—what?"

"You want me to be the fucking pervert in your little narrative?" He steps closer, and suddenly the bubble feels much smaller. "Fine. Let's explore that theory."

The eldritch whips move before you can process what's happening. They spin you around with fluid movements, repositioning your body until you're facing the translucent wall of the bubble.

Your bound hands press against the curve of the barrier, and you can see the twisted landscape beyond—all those impossible colors and crystalline formations that should be your primary concern right now.

Instead, all you can focus on is the way Yoongi is systematically turning you into exactly what you accused him of wanting.

More whips appear, weaving through the air and immediately wrapping around your thighs, your waist, across your chest in patterns that are simultaneously functional and decorative. The magic feels different now—less restrained, more creative. Like he's finally stopped holding back and decided to show you exactly what centuries of traditional technique can accomplish.

"You see, tarae," his voice comes from behind you, calm and educational, "traditional shibari isn't just about restraint. It's about precision. Patience. The kind of disciplined technique that takes years to master properly."

A whip loops around your ankle and draws your leg up and to the side, the position forcing you to rely entirely on the other restraints for balance. The magical constructs support you effortlessly, distributing your weight in ways that are comfortable despite being completely immobilizing.

"But you wouldn't know that," he continues conversationally, "because you've never bothered to study the fundamentals. You just assume that anything traditional must be inferior to whatever innovation you think you've discovered."

Another binding appears around your other thigh, drawing it wider, and suddenly you understand exactly how thoroughly fucked you are.

Not just restrained—displayed. Positioned.

Made into something beautiful and helpless and completely at his mercy.

Your breath catches as you realize the full scope of what he's doing.

This isn't just punishment or even dominance play.

This is art. Technical mastery that takes decades to develop.

"Tell me, tarae," Yoongi says, and you can hear the smile in his voice, "how does it feel to be on the receiving end of those boring traditional methods?"

You try to turn your head to look at him, but another whip appears around your throat—not tight enough to restrict breathing, just enough to keep you facing forward.

The message is clear: you don't get to see him right now. You're the subject, not the observer.

"This is…" You struggle to find words that don't sound like admissions of how incredibly turned on you are. "This is completely inappropriate."

"You're the one who suggested I was a pervert," he points out reasonably. "I'm just giving you what you asked for. Aren't you always complaining that I don't listen to your ideas?

"You can't just tie me up because I hurt your feelings," you manage, though your voice comes out breathier than you intended.

"I'm not tying you up because you hurt my feelings, tarae." Another whip appears, this one trailing along your spine in a way that makes you arch involuntarily. "I'm tying you up because you challenged me to prove I wasn't boring. Consider this my counter-argument."

The binding around your throat shifts, tilting your head back slightly, and suddenly you can see his reflection in the translucent barrier. He's standing behind you, close enough to touch, and the expression on his face is something you've never seen before.

Focused, yes, but also… pleased. Like he's been holding back more than just his magical techniques.

"Still think traditional methods are inefficient, tarae?"

You want to give him some cutting response, some clever comeback that proves you're still in control of this situation.

Instead, what comes out is a soft, involuntary sound that might generously be called a whimper.

Yoongi's reflection smiles, and it's not the polite, professional expression he usually wears.

It's something darker and infinitely more dangerous.

"That's what I thought."

The first whip moves politely, sliding beneath the collar of your shirt like it's testing the boundaries of what you'll allow. The magical construct feels warm against your skin, almost alive as it traces along your collarbone before dipping lower. You can feel it exploring, mapping the curve of your chest with patient thoroughness that makes your breath hitch.

"Still want to tell me how boring traditional techniques are, tarae?" Yoongi's voice carries that same conversational tone, like he's discussing magical theory instead of systematically dismantling your composure.

"This is—ngh!"

The protest dies in your throat as the whip finds your breast, coiling around the soft flesh with just enough pressure to make you arch against the restraints. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced—not quite touch, not quite magic, but something in between that makes your nerve endings sing.

Another whip begins its own exploration, this one trailing up your inner thigh with maddening patience.

You can feel it through the fabric of your shorts, warm and slightly textured, like silk that's been given weight and purpose. It wraps around your thigh just above the knee, then tightens with a gentle tug that sends heat shooting straight to your core.

"You know what I find interesting about you, tarae?" Yoongi continues, and you can hear him moving behind you, boots echoing softly against whatever surface exists within the bubble. "You talk a big game about innovation and efficiency, but look how responsive you are to traditional methods."

"I'm not—ah!"

The denial becomes a gasp as the whip around your breast gives a subtle pulse.

"Not what?" His tone is genuinely curious, like he's conducting an experiment. "Not enjoying this? Because your body suggests otherwise."

A third whip appears, and this one moves with obvious intent. It slides along your outer thigh, traces the hem of your shorts, then slips beneath the fabric with perfect magical control.

You feel it against bare skin now, warm and slick and unmistakably alive as it continues its upward journey, and your breath immediately comes in short pants as you realize where it's headed.

The rational part of your brain screams that this is insane, that you should put a stop to this before it goes any further.

But the larger part—the part that's been craving his attention, his approval, his acknowledgment of your abilities—wants to see exactly how far he'll take this.

The whip reaches the edge of your panties and pauses, like it's asking permission.

"You want me to stop, tarae," Yoongi says quietly. "Say 'tradition is better than innovation' and I'll stop. Right now. No questions asked."

A safe word, simple and available. All you have to do is admit that his methods are superior to yours, and this ends. You go back to being teacher and student, Sorcerer Supreme and difficult subordinate, nothing more complicated than professional hierarchy.

"Ngh—no," you manage.

The whip slips under the fabric of your underwear, finds your slit with unerring accuracy, and the first contact makes you jolt against the restraints so hard they have to adjust to accommodate the movement.

You're wet. Embarrassingly, obviously wet, and the whip responds to that discovery with what feels almost like satisfaction. It begins to move against you with languid, exploratory strokes, the texture shifting from silk-smooth to something more complex, more stimulating.

"No what?" Yoongi's voice is closer now, and when you catch his reflection in the barrier, you can see he's moved to get a better view. "No, you don't want me to stop? Or no, you're not going to admit that traditional methods work?"

"Fuck—" The word dissolves into a whimper as the whip finds your clit and circles it with maddening lightness. "Fuck you and your—ah!—your stupid traditional—"

"Still defiant," he observes, and there's amusement in his tone. "Even when you're dripping wet and completely at my mercy. Do you have any idea how beautiful you look right now, tarae?"

The whip between your legs becomes more insistent, pressure building in slow waves whilst the one around your breast mirrors the rhythm, creating a symphony of sensation that overwhelms your ability to form coherent thoughts.

"Y-Yoongi—" His name comes out as a broken moan, and you hate how desperate you sound.

"What was that?" Another whip appears, this one sliding along your jaw before pressing against your lips. "I couldn't quite hear you over all that bratty defiance."

You open your mouth to tell him exactly what you think of his smugness, but the whip slips between your lips before you can speak.

This one tastes exactly like the previous one, something fizzy and static, like electricity, and your first instinct is to bite down and reject the intrusion.

Instead, you find yourself running your tongue along its length, exploring the texture that shifts from firm to yielding under your attention.

"That's better, tarae," Yoongi murmurs, and the approval in his voice sends heat shooting through you. "Though I suspect you're still thinking rebellious thoughts."

The whip in your mouth begins to move, sliding deeper into your cavity until each thrust matches the rhythm of the one between your legs.

More whips appear, these ones pushing at the waistband of your shorts with clear intent. You feel the fabric sliding down your hips, exposing you completely to his view, and the vulnerability should be terrifying—but in reality, it’s intoxicating.

"Look at you, tarae," his voice is rough now, professional control finally showing cracks. "Suspended there like a work of art. All that defiance, all that innovation, and you're melting for the most traditional form of restraint imaginable."

A new whip joins the one already working between your legs, this one focusing on your entrance while the first continues its attention to your clit. The suggestion makes you arch against the restraints, a muffled cry escaping around the whip in your mouth.

"Still think my methods are boring, tarae?" Yoongi asks, and when you catch his reflection, his eyes are dark. "Because you seem to be finding them very… stimulating."

The whip at your entrance begins to push inside, and the sensation of being filled by pure magical energy makes your vision blur. It moves patiently, gradually stretching you while the other continues its relentless attention to your clit.

Your response is lost in the whip filling your mouth, which has taken on a slick, almost organic texture that makes it easy to suck and lick. You work your tongue around it eagerly, some part of your brain recognizing this is just another way of his to prove that his traditional methods are, in fact, incredibly effective.

"Such a good student when properly motivated, tarae," he observes, and the praise makes you clench around the whip inside you. "I think you're finally beginning to understand the value of discipline."

Oh, fuck him and his smug observations.

You want to tell him exactly where he can shove his 'discipline,' but the way the magical constructs are working in perfect harmony—thrusting, circling, building pleasure inside you—makes it impossible to protest.

Your body is responding helplessly, climbing toward something that promises to be absolutely devastating, and the worst part is how good he is at this.

Because of course he's good at this.

Of course centuries of traditional technique translate into knowing exactly how to unravel you perfectly.

You hate how right he is. Hate that his boring, methodical approach is systematically proving that maybe—just maybe—there's value in all that traditional mastery you've been so eager to dismiss.

The magical made harness shifts again—another of those fluid adjustments that speaks to centuries of refined technique—bringing you face to face with him as the restraints reposition your suspended form.

The translucent barrier of the bubble reflects both your images back at you, and the sight should probably be mortifying.

You, trussed up like some kind of mystical art installation, completely at his mercy while he stands there looking perfectly composed.

Instead, it's the hottest thing you've ever seen.

He raises a hand and your body drifts closer, suspended in air like gravity is just another outdated concept he's decided to ignore.

A knuckle glides along your cheekbone, the touch infuriatingly gentle for a man who just tied you like an ink painting. His fingertip skims the bow of your lip, then the bottom lip, slow, slow, like testing the heat of a kettle.

"Still not going to say it, tarae," he murmurs, thumb coaxing your mouth open before pulling away just as you try to bite. The teasing bastard knows exactly what he's doing. "Say tradition is better than innovation, and this stops. You get the ground back. The robe back. The day back."

You bare your teeth at him, soft pants breaking against his thumb when it withdraws.

Like hell you're giving him that satisfaction.

"Fuck you."

A quiet hum of approval and your world tilts again.

Another stupidly seamless reconfiguration that repositions your spine until you're arched in suspended missionary, hips cradled in a lustrous harness while your shoulders rest in a lattice that keeps all the weight off your joints.

The efficiency of it is almost insulting.

Here you are, trying to maintain some semblance of defiance, and he's demonstrating magical mastery that makes your most innovative spellwork look like amateur hour.

Your shorts and panties vanish with a casual flick of his wrist—not dramatic, just inevitable—folded into nothingness like they never existed.

Heat drapes over your face from the pulse in your own throat.

The nearest whip thickens, glistening—slick with your sheen—and drives into you in slow, syrupy strokes, stroking, parting, filling. The rhythm is precise, intolerably patient. Another slips along your clit, drawing lazy circles that make your calves flex inside their bindings.

"Look at me, tarae," he says, and it's not really a request.

You do, because you can't not, held open and held up, the bubble reflecting his profile and unblinking attention.

Because indeed, he is paying attention to you, noticing every single one of the emotions that betray your face.

"Tradition," he repeats, "is better—"

Your laugh comes out as a rasp, because even now—suspended and helpless and dripping around his stupid mystical constructs—the audacity of the statement strikes you as ridiculous.

"Eat glass."

His gaze warms with something that might be fondness if you didn't know better.

The whip inside you stutters with a wicked little pulse before withdrawing almost completely, lingering at your entrance in a way that makes you want to scream with frustration. Then it slides back in with deliberate slowness, and the mewl that escapes you is pure, humiliating need.

You bite it back and glare on principle, even though your body is betraying you with every quiver and clench.

"You always race ahead of the proof," he says with that maddening calm.

He steps in close, palm flattening low on your belly, feeling his own magic push through you.

A tap—two fingers to the slick, phantom tongue thrusting into you that apparently translates into ‘stand down.’

The construct does. Pauses like a well-trained familiar, then melts from your cunt with a wet sound that makes your ears burn. The one at your clit slows to a gentle tease before going still, leaving you with nothing but a throbbing outline of absence that snaps across your nerves.

"Yoon—" His name leaks out, ruined by the hitch in your breath, and you hate how desperate you sound.

He drags his eyes up from where you're glistening for him, holding your gaze in a way that makes it impossible to look away—the question in your pupils, the curse balanced on your tongue, he knows it all, the insufferable bastard.

“Last chance, tarae," he says, steady. "Say the words."

You swallow hard, chin lifting . "Fuck. You."

The corner of his mouth tilts.

He undoes the front of his robes with one clean motion, and there's nothing showy about it. Just the inevitable conclusion to whatever point he's been making about traditional techniques versus your supposedly superior innovations.

Heat licks up your cheeks at the sight of him, blood rushing to your ears and throat and the aching place between your legs that clenches around nothing.

He strokes himself once, twice, the glide easy; his breath narrows but doesn’t hitch. He’s still watching your face like he wants to memorize it.

“Eyes on me, tarae,” he says.

They already are.

His hands steady you open, breath caught between your teeth as he pushes past the soft resistance of your cunt, slow enough to feel every flicker of it.

Your hips try to buck, but the bindings hold them where he set them, tipping your pelvis so he can sink the way he wants.

There’s a momentary heartbeat where he pauses, testing your breath, the flutter in your neck, the microtension in your abs against his palm.

Then he seats himself in one long, unbroken thrust.

The stretch is immediate and overwhelming—wet, obscene friction that floods through you like molten gold.

Your own arousal makes that first slide effortless, a single dizzying glide that seats him completely inside you.

The harness creaks softly, and your breath shatters into fragments.

"Ah—hnnh—Yoong—ah—fuck—"

He exhales through his nose, controlled even now, eyes fixed on your mouth and the way his name falls from your lips like something sacred. The pulse in his throat kicks faster, but his fingers stay steady against your lower belly, thumb ghosting circles that aren't quite pressure, aren't quite comfort.

He doesn't move. Just makes you feel every millimeter of him buried deep, the way your body grips and trembles around the intrusion, adjusting to accommodate him.

It's another demonstration of that infuriating patience—letting you process the sensation instead of rushing ahead to the next step.

"Say it, tarae," he says, voice low and rough around the edges. "Use your safeword, and this stops. Right now."

Your lashes flutter as you try to marshal some cutting response, some way to prove you're still in control of this situation.

What comes out instead sounds pathetically breathless.

"Tradition—" You pause, savoring the way he goes absolutely still. "—can eat my ass."

A soft, disbelieving huff—half laugh, half reprimand—breaks from him.

His hand leaves your belly to cup your jaw, thumb pressing the damp curve of your lower lip.

He draws back slow, the drag exquisite, then sinks home again in a measured stroke that sends your eyes unfocused for a beat.

You really do try to come up with something cutting to say. Something that proves his methodical approach hasn't completely scrambled your brain.

What emerges, however (not your proudest moment), is a breathy, "f-fuck, you're—hn—still boring—"

His answer is movement.

Not punishing, not tender.

Just… Fuck. Exact.

He sets a rhythm calibrated precisely to your tells—the way your brows pinch when the angle hits that perfect spot, the breathless sound you make when his pelvis grinds against your clit, the way you clutch when he stays deep and grinds instead of thrusts.

Every micro-adjustment is a theorem proven on your body, and the systematic nature of it should be impersonal.

Instead, it's the most intensely personal thing you've ever experienced.

The harness cradles each thrust, distributing force through the intricate knots so every stroke lands exactly where it should without jarring your joints.

Your moans escape despite your best efforts to maintain some dignity—soft little "ah—ah—ah—ngh—Yoongi—ah—" sounds that make his eyelids go heavy with satisfaction.

"Look at you learning, tarae," he murmurs, picking up a shade of pace. "This is the part where you concede the point."

Your response is to chase the angle despite the restraints, thighs flexing against their glossy bonds in a futile attempt to get more leverage.

The whips respond immediately, adjusting your position by half a degree to give you exactly what you were seeking.

He rewards the movement with a stroke that punches a helpless sound out of you, a tremoring “gnh—y-you—ah—”

"Safeword, tarae," he prompts again, and somehow he makes it sound less like an escape route and more like another boundary he knows you're too stubborn to accept.

You bare your teeth at him through the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes—not sad tears, just the inevitable result of sensation so intense it overwhelms your nervous system.

"Eat—gnh—tradition."

His smile is slow and dark and absolutely lethal. "As you wish."

A tongue-slick whip slips back in—not to replace him, but to adorn the edge of sensation.

It winds around your clit and suckles, not frantic, just steady, syncing with the press of his hips so the suction peaks when he’s deepest.

Another coils loosely at your throat—not restricting your breathing, just a small reminder of how completely he controls this situation. It tilts your chin to keep your mouth positioned exactly where he wants it, ensuring he can watch every expression that crosses your face.

He tightens his grip on your jaw, thumb tugging your lip down, and looks into the wet shine of your eyes.

"Say the words, tarae," he repeats, softer now, as if he's offering you a gift instead of demanding surrender.

You stare right back and give him the smallest, brattiest shake of your head, a breathy, “No.”

His breath leaves him in a pleased, quiet noise. “Good.”

Then he really begins to work you over.

And at this point, your body just responds with helpless honesty—quivers and clenches you can't control, moans that shift from high and breathy to deep and desperate as he adjusts his angle.

Fragments of his name get tangled up with incoherent syllables: "Y—Yoong—ah—hng—please—"

His brows notch, and you catch it—the flicker of something tender, gone fast as lightning but real. He leans in until his forehead almost touches yours, breath mixing, pupils blown.

“Safeword, tarae,” he whispers, the word brushing your lip like a kiss he doesn’t take. “Or take it.”

You take it.

Your hands flex uselessly against the silk restraints at your back as your hips try to meet his thrusts, but the harness denies you that leverage—feeding into that maddening helplessness that makes every sensation sharper.

He rolls his hips and the whip at your clit tightens its seal for just a moment, pressure building on pressure, and the whine that escapes you is pure sugar.

"Ah—ah—Yoongi—ngh—s-stop being—"

“Boring?” he supplies, amused breath heating your mouth as he drives in slow and cruelly deep. “I’m teaching.”

One final adjustment to the restraints tilts your pelvis at an angle that turns the sensation nuclear.

Your jaw drops slack under his thumb; whatever insult you were constructing dissolves into a high, desperate keen: "ahh—ahhh—gn—Yoon—ah!"

"Lesson learned, tarae," he says, voice gone rough as your walls flutter around him in warning.

He holds himself buried to the hilt while the construct at your clit draws one final, steady pull that feels like lighting a fuse.

You can feel the climax building—low and warm and inevitable, tension coiling through your thighs and belly and chest like a spring wound too tight.

He watches it crest in your eyes, because of course he does.

It’s what he does best—always watching, the scientist and the saint and the sinner all at once, cataloging every tell like a library he’ll revisit later to ruin you more efficiently.

"Say it, tarae," he tries once more, though it sounds more like ritual than genuine expectation now.

Your lashes stick together with tears and sweat, but somehow you manage to curve your mouth into a wicked, breathless smile.

"Make me."

His answer is a bitten-back groan—as if he refuses to give you the satisfaction of hearing how good you feel wrapped around him—followed by a series of deep, precise, relentless strokes that push you over, the suction at your clit sealing the moment and pulling it wide.

You break apart beautifully, suspended in silk and starlight, the harness singing softly as your body convulses around him.

His name falls from your lips in broken pieces as the orgasm rolls through you in waves, and he rides every tremor, one hand steady on your jaw to keep your eyes locked on his until the sensation becomes too much and you have to let your head fall back.

When you finally float back down to something resembling consciousness, he's still buried inside you—solid and warm and absolutely immovable.

The construct at your clit has gentled to barely-there touches that make you twitch with aftershocks, but he doesn't withdraw.

"Still boring, tarae?"

You open your eyes—wrecked and wet and stubborn as ever—and find his gaze waiting for you. Steady. Patient. Still holding your entire world together with nothing but will and centuries of traditional technique.

Your voice comes out sanded raw but determined.

"You—ah—took long enough."

His smile is small and lethal, equal parts pride and promise.

"Then we should address your impatience, tarae."

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© jungkoode 2025

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[furvanoctua]

Did a digital painting from this sketch. I’m overall pretty happy with it, but I still feel like I could do more work on it. I don’t think I’m gonna get around to do that though and it looks finished enough :P

[furvanoctua]

More drawing from today's DnD session!