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the first taste | myg ୨ৎ chapter 3 !!

୨ৎ PAIRING !! yoongi x f!reader

୨ৎ SUMMARY !! You’re fresh off another breakup, furious at your own body for never responding the way it’s “supposed” to—and even more furious at the sinking fear that something might be wrong with you. When late-night research leads you toward fantasies you’ve never dared to voice, you turn to the one person you trust most: your best friend.

୨ৎ TAGS/WARNINGS !! NSFW, MDNI (18+), Bisexual Paralegal Kim Namjoon, MC is avoidant as hell, more references to secretary (2002) so lmk if you catch them, incompetent lawyers, lots and lots of tension, dirty talk, some light exhibitionism, kissing, nipple play, orgasm denial as punishment (everybody cheered), humiliation & degradation, praise, spanking, light bondage/restraints, a.k.a yoongi uses a tie for nefarious activities, finger sucking, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), D/s dynamics (duh), implied aftercare, i promise we'll get a real aftercare scene at some point but not yet, lmk if i missed anything

୨ৎ WORDCOUNT !! 14.4k

୨ৎ AUTHOR'S NOTE !! SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG! i know a lot of you have been waiting. hopefully after my bts concert (tampa april 26) i'll be able to get back to some semblance of a posting schedule lol. thank you to @yoonmetogether for beta reading in a pinch! hope y'all enjoy <3

p.s. if i missed some typos or formatting things or repeated phrases, no i didn’t. it’s like 2 a.m. as i’m uploading this and i’m only doing it because i love you 🫵

chapter 3: do it again, and i'll see you tomorrow (♬)

Against your will, you’ve suddenly become The Incredible Disappearing Roommate this week.

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.

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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