marknee

[marknee]

sorry guys i haven’t read any fics lately i’m in a slump but i’m happy to share my to read list if youse r interested… in… that..?

let me know anyways

[marknee]

phenomenal. need i say less

the shape of breath (j.yh)

summary: life has been too much. too big, too loud, too present. you ask yunho to take you further than you've ever gone, and he does, with every rope and every inch of your surrender. i want my eroticism mixed with love, and deep love one does not experience often. - anaïs nin 🔗 read it on ao3 📚 fic masterlist 🪢 shibari glossary & resource library 🌹 anchor point mood board

note: this work is a one-shot of romance and erotica, and is set between yunho and reader, a couple both in a romantic relationship and an established d/s dynamic. anchor point has not been published yet, but is a series that will tell their story of trauma, recovery, and rope play. this story is set several years in the future, when they have come to their version of a happily ever after.

warnings: dom!yunho, rigger!yunho, sub!reader, rope bottom!reader, shibari, kinbaku, bdsm dynamics, d/s dynamics, rope play, partial suspension, full suspension, predicament ties, pain play, hard dom yunho, subspace, pushing limits, on page consent checks, use of the color system, on-page discussion of the scene both pre-play and post-play, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, bites, marks, heavy use of "sir" and very formal d/s dynamics, kneeling, total submission, body manipulation, rough handling, fingering, oral (f receiving), internal vibrator, nipple play, impact play (light), hair pulling, slapping, breath play, penetrative sex, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, implied belly kink/belly focus, daddy kink, creampie, use of the word 'little', praise, degradation, lots of aftercare, additionally there are references to past physical trauma within a bdsm scene including SA but mention is brief, this will be handled in the full anchor point series later on. mention of injuries sustained from a past rigger / traumatic rope scene.

pairings: rigger!yunho x fem!reader

genre: smut, hurt/comfort, bdsm erotica

word count: 21k please be mindful of the tags on this one, and reference both the resource library and the disclaimer under the cut if you're not sure if you want to proceed.

disclaimer:

this work is a big leap of faith for me, and a foray into a kink and a bdsm practice that is extremely detailed and nuanced. i do not practice shibari personally (though i am looking into it and would like to) but i have done extensive research in an effort to write this honestly and accurately. if you practice shibari or know more about this than i do, and you catch anything written here that is inaccurate, or potentially if any of the ties/suspensions or combinations i've written are unsafe, please let me know. i do not believe in producing work that spreads misinformation about bdsm, and am more than willing to listen, learn, and adjust an existing work to ensure that future readers have a safe and genuine experience reading. further, if this is your first introduction to shibari, bdsm, or pain play i encourage you to go in with an open mind. if any of these dynamics, particularly the dynamics of shibari or dominance and submission interest you personally, please make sure that you do your own research and find your own limits before engaging in any of the acts i've described here. reader and yunho have been in a relationship for six years in this work, they are fully established. i would never recommend jumping into anything this intense with a new partner or without your own full understanding of these dynamics. that said.... this work is super personal to me. i truly hope you enjoy it. please check out the resource library for a glossary of terms, reference images to the ties and suspensions listed in this work, and free resources to watch shibari scenes to get a fuller understanding of these dynamics. thank you for reading. ♡

Your rope room is a sacred space. 

His and yours alone. 

Most of the time, the door stays closed, shut and sealed off from your regular lives. It’s a world away from your nine to five, it doesn’t factor into your morning coffee or your game nights with friends. 

It’s private, it’s ritual. 

To you and to Yunho, it’s holy. 

It’s been weeks since you’ve used the room properly, months if you’re being honest. Life has been leaning on you heavily lately, in that sweet spot between work, more work, and every little thing going wrong that could go wrong. You’re working late nights, getting up earlier and earlier, kissing him with a perfunctory peck on your way out the door. You haven’t connected in too long. Not with dates, or sex, or intimacy, and certainly not with rope. 

The door has been closed. Occasionally he pulls it open to grab supplies for a workshop he’s teaching or a rope jam you’re attending, but lately it’s just been shut and you haven’t had the space or the energy to try and push it open. 

Tonight is different though.

The large sliding door that closes off this space is wide open when you get home from work, and you can feel the tension in your shoulders starting to unspool just at the sight of it. You had planned this with Yunho in excruciating detail, just like you always do, but it’s still a surprising comfort to see it as you walk through the front door of your shared loft. 

You suppress the urge to call out and let him know you’re home from work, you know that if he’s already in the room that means he’s already preparing, getting his mind and his body ready for tonight, and so you quietly slip through the apartment to do the same. 

You discard your stiff outside clothes, freshen up for the night ahead, and slip on your softest silk robe. On quiet feet, you pad over to the open door and look inside, leaning against the outer wall as you watch him. 

The lights are low, warmth spilling from the lamps, but your chest warms at the sight of the candles. White, long stemmed, and placed throughout the room, strategically far from your play mat, but adding a flickering glow to the space. The rig hangs in the center of the room, a thick bamboo bar anchored firmly to the ceiling, glowing almost golden in the low light. 

Yunho’s back is to you, but you watch as he shakes out a match, a curl of smoke blooming from the end, the sharp smell of sulfur and flame dissipating along with it into the air. He’s dressed comfortably, in loose, breathable fabric. Soft black pants that shift with him as he moves, and a gently fitted black tank top, no sleeves to catch against the ropes as he works, nothing to interrupt his flow or his attention on you. 

With a slow breath, in and out like you’re walking into a yoga class or a meditative retreat, you let the day fade behind you and you step inside. 

His head turns at the first sound of you, barefoot on the tatami mat, the soft give of the bound straw under your feet as you make your way towards him. You let the smell of jute and beeswax take you, the way it curls around your senses like a soft hand against your spine, guiding you into the center of the space. 

Yunho’s eyes flicker down your body, not in hunger or anticipation, but for health. His practiced eyes study your steps, the set of your shoulders, your posture, your expression, the tension you carry into the room.

It relaxes you instantly. 

“Come here, baby,” His voice is warm, tender. 

It pulls you, like a cord tied to your breastbone, tethering you to him, and you go. 

You step past his rope bag and the tools set up on the table. Clean towels, room temperature water in a glass carafe, a new pair of medical trauma shears. 

As you step to him, he reaches for your waist with one hand and brings the other to your face, cupping your cheek so gently it makes your chest ache. 

“Hi,” he murmurs. 

“Hi,” 

A small smile pulls at his lips, “You good to be here tonight?” 

You nod, sinking into the touch of his hand unconsciously. 

He arches a gentle brow. 

“Yes, sir,” You correct yourself. 

He studies you a little longer, his thumb brushing a tender line over your cheekbone, and then he dips forwards to press a kiss to your forehead, “Take a breath,” he instructs gently, “let it go.” 

You inhale, and with your exhale, you let the weight of your week fall away. 

He takes a step back, and this time when he speaks his tone shifts, still gentle, but anchored in something deeper, “Let’s check in.” 

As he reaches for the water carafe and pours you a glass, you take your familiar place on the mat, the rig behind you as you kneel into the perfect picture of submission, feet tucked under your backside, hands resting open and up on your thighs. 

Yunho kneels before you, a mirror of your body, and passes you the water glass as he begins his ritual. 

You take a sip, waiting patiently. 

“Any pain today?” He starts off. 

“My right hamstring is a bit tight,” You answer honestly, “everything else is okay.” 

His hand smooths over your thigh, his fingers skating along the seam of your folded legs, “We’ll keep this leg grounded,” he says, “you tell me if things feel tighter or sharper.” 

“Yes, sir,” 

His eyes flick to yours, pleased, “Your shoulder?” 

You roll it to show him, “Feels good.” 

His hand skims up over your arm and rests over the cap of your left shoulder, just for a moment. The gentle pressure of his hand communicates a silent vow, a promise to protect you here, to guard you from pain, from memory. 

It’s been a long time since it’s pained you in a scene, and a long time since you’ve found yourself tumbling back into difficult memories of your last rigger and that final, terrible scene with him. ‘Scene’ isn’t even the right word for what it was, but you don’t like to think of it often. It’s just the night that left your arm damaged and numb and clinging to physical therapy while you latched onto your best friend, to Yunho’s sure safety in the aftermath of it all. 

No matter how many years it’s been, he still checks your shoulder every time. You think he always will. 

“Any changes to your hard limits, today?” He asks as his hands settle on his own thighs, palms down and grounded. 

You sip your water, “No,” you say as you shake your head, “but still no gags.” 

He’s ready for that, he always is. It’s your firmest limit, the one that you have to echo at the beginning of every scene just to let your body relax the right way. Yunho understands with perfect clarity, as the one who pulled you down from the amateur rig, cut you out of dangerously wrapped rope, and stitched your body and your mind back together over years. He’d never even suggest a gag, and he’s the only man you trust now to hold you like this, but you still have to say it.

He smiles faintly at your own ritual, “Wouldn’t dream of it,” 

A thought occurs and you blink, “No inversion today,” 

His gaze sharpens, “Of course,” he nods, “tell me,” 

“I had a headache a few days ago,” You explain, “it took a little while to shake it, full inversion’s probably not the best right now,” 

“Understood,” He says, “if you start to feel it, or if you get dizzy, you call yellow.”

“Yes, sir.” 

He nods, “And soft limits? Anything new?” 

Warmth curls in you and you nod, “If you want breath, I’d like to try.” 

He takes a beat, taking in your words, “Tell me how,” 

You steady yourself, “Your hand only,” you tell him softly, “and I want to be able to pull away.” 

“Always,” He replies, “anything else?” 

“No, sir,” 

His eyes soften up considerably for just a moment, “Drink your water, sweetheart.” 

You bring the glass back to your lips and take small sips. 

“Did you eat today?” 

“A light lunch, around three?”

“Good girl,” He reaches for the glass as you finish it, and a flutter bursts in your chest at his warm words. 

You rest your hands on your thighs once again, palms up, fingers soft and curled. 

“Tell me your colors,” He asks. 

“Green, I’m good, continue.” 

He nods.

“Yellow, slow down, verbal check-ins, potentially end suspension.” 

He nods again. 

“Red,” You say, the word still an echoing shape in your mouth even years after that night, “stop, end the scene, cut me out.” 

“Good.” He nods. 

You hardly need to review limits with him, not after years and years of developing this language and this intimacy with one another, but after the things you experienced before him, after having ‘red’ be ignored by your previous rigger, Yunho maintains verbal clarity with you no matter what. 

You love him for it. 

“You know your body,” He says gently, “and I’ll be watching like I always do,” 

You nod. 

“But sharp pain, total numbness, anything you haven’t felt with me before,” He says, “I do not want you pushing yourself through that tonight.” 

Your eyes flick over him. You want to clarify, to ask, especially since you had discussed new ties for tonight, specific predicament positions you wanted. Some amount of challenge and newness with that is to be expected, and his words throw you off, but he continues before you even open your mouth. 

“It’s been a difficult week, a difficult month,” He corrects, “I’ll hold you through that, and everything we discussed last weekend is still on the table, but we haven’t tied like this in a while. We’re not here to please me, we’re here to process.” 

Soft realization blooms in you, “Understood.” 

Yunho lets that sink in, and then leans forwards, kissing you gently on the lips once. 

When he leans back, you watch as something settles in his chest, his posture, the way his expression smooths into something almost passive. 

“Are you asking me to take control?” 

“Yes, sir,” 

“Willingly?” He asks, as he always does, “Without pressure?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The faintest smile tugs at the corner of his lips, “Then I accept.” 

Liquid heat spreads inside you, from your chest to your belly, creeping into every limb. 

Yunho shifts, rising slowly back to his feet, tall and sure above you, and reaches for the first coil of jute. He moves around you slowly, letting himself sink into his dominance, the rope a familiar weight in his hand as he assesses you. 

Your body thrums in anticipation, in aching interest, a nervous flutter in your belly like the rapid beat of hummingbird wings. 

He settles by your side into a crouch, bare feet on the mat, his knees bracketing your chest and back as he encroaches into your space. 

You swallow tightly, but keep your eyes trained on the wall ahead. 

“This rope belongs to me,” He murmurs softly, a coarse curl of it brushing over your tricep. 

You stay quiet. 

“And this body,” His hot hand slides across your chest, fingertips grazing against your collarbone, “this body is mine alone for as long as you give it.” 

“Yes,” You breathe, “yes, sir.”

His voice hardens, not unkind, just clear and sure, “Then give it to me.” 

Your body melts, head turning to him and dipping low in supplication until your forehead gently connects with his inner thigh. 

His hand rests over the back of your neck, warm and tight on your skin. 

He hasn’t even wrapped you yet, and you already feel like you're flying. 

Yunho shifts back, clearing space, and slowly pushes your head to the mat until you’re settled into a deep bow. 

You don’t shift or sway, you don’t try to get more comfortable, not now. Now, you wait, just as you always do.

You wait and you breathe. 

The warm scent of the rice straw, the flicker of candle light, the warmth of his gaze as he slides behind you. 

Gently, Yunho finds the tie to your robe and tugs it free, guiding the fabric down and off your body until it’s pooled around you like a frame. His fingertips glide along the visible line of your spine, emphasized in this folded position, his hands mapping you with every brush. 

You can feel yourself trembling, not in fear, but in anticipation, and he strokes your back once more. 

Quietly, he finally speaks, “Sit up, sweet girl.” 

You breath hitches, something tight and warm in you at his words, and slowly you raise back up to your kneeling position, back straight and head high. Your skin prickles at the cool air of the room and the weight of his eyes on you. 

He sighs once, pleasantly, but when he moves again it’s with complete and total control. 

Yunho slides close, the heat of his body behind you its own kind of weight. 

You let your eyes unfocus, let the knot in your belly start to unfurl. 

“Breathe,” He reminds you gently, and then his hands skim over your arms with intimate care. 

“Yes, sir,” 

There’s no music, no sound but your mingled breath and skin brushing along skin, but the way he moves with you and the way he handles rope always feels like a dance. A new rhythm every time, new steps, but a song between your bodies that only you two can play. 

Yunho’s large hands slide over your forearms until he cups yours in each of his, fingers curling over to press into your palms as he guides your arms up and into position. 

You let him take you, lead you, until your arms are lifted and folded– elbows tucked against your ribs, palms facing front, thumbs brushing your shoulders. 

Your shoulderblades naturally tuck together, chest lifting and opening. 

His hands drift away, but you stay in position, and then finally, you feel it. 

He draws the rope over your right shoulder, not to tie, just draping it there. Quietly, he gives you the weight of it, the scratch of the fiber, the intention. 

You exhale on instinct. 

He says nothing, but you feel his fingertips ghost along the small of your back, and the sharp sensation of rope over skin as he pulls the draped cord quickly back into his own hands, his work hidden behind you. 

You swallow tightly, audibly. 

He’s skilled at this, the way he builds anticipation with every breath. The gentlest touches of rope to skin, the soft pads of his fingers, changing pace from fast to slow and back to fast, all of it marrying together to make a rhythm you have to submit to. Something that makes you let go and accept the not knowing. 

With your arms in this position though, the first coil comes exactly where you know it will, a looped single column tie around your upper left arm just above the bicep. He cinches the knot snugly, checking the seam of the rope against your skin with two fingers, and adjusting the knot into place. His hand settles on your shoulder again, his thumb rolling slowly over the joint. 

“Color?” He asks gently. 

“Green.” 

The rope shifts as he continues to wrap, looping under your right arm and curling back over, and with the guided pressure of the rope as it slides over your skin your arms tuck back, shoulder blades tighter together now. 

He checks the cuffs, locking off the first knots with loops of jute, his body warm at your back, silent, and solid. 

Your spine is straight, shoulders together, chest open wide to the front of the room. It’s already hard to maintain composure. There’s overwhelming intimacy in this, the way he attends to your body, the way he knows you. It’s not arousal yet, but the anticipation of it leaves your body thrumming.

With a sudden breath against your hair, Yunho leans in against you, and wraps the length of cord over your chest, situated in a familiar arc above your breasts before wrapping back and locking into the cuffs binding your arms into position. He secures knots with sure hands, attaching another length of rope to the center point behind you, and here you feel the scene start to really begin. 

The heat of him envelops you as he leans in close, body cocooning yours from behind, his lips against your cheek as he wraps the next cord around your ribs, high, just under your breasts to make a pretty picture of your chest. 

His free hand settles high over your abdomen, just under your breastbone, “Breathe for me,” 

You inhale, full and deep, holding the air as he feels your body under his wraps, and then exhale. 

He locks off the cord that wraps over your ribs behind you, and settles close again, both hands flat on your skin, chest, belly, “Again.” 

You do. 

He’s watching your ribs, your diaphragm, the way the rope moves with your breath. He looks for how the knots settle, if the cords slip on a hard exhale, if they pull, stretch, or cut into your skin on an inhale. 

“Good girl,” He murmurs roughly against your temple, “how are your shoulders?” 

He leans away as he asks it, his fingers pressing into your palms and testing your responses carefully, but you reply with ease, “Good, sir.” 

“Color?” 

“Green.” 

He continues the Tengu Harness with sure fingers. A line of cord between your breasts to tighten the top and bottom line of the chest harness, new cuffs wrapped around either wrist, loops from wrist over open palm, a rough line of rope in the soft juncture of your hand between thumb and index finger, all anchored to the knots between your shoulders to hold you open. 

Yunho checks your hands again, and then slides his whole body in front of you. His eyes study you, but he looks nothing but pleased at the gentle softness in your expression. 

He adds one more coil of rope in a decorative pattern over your upper chest below the hollow of your throat, pretty loops and knots for him to admire as he plays with you, but it adds no extra pressure or tightness to the already snug harness you’re bound in. 

He sighs pleasantly as he looks you over, and then he reaches for the next wrapped coil of jute. 

You watch him move, but you’re focused entirely on the sensations in your arms, your chest. The tight hug of the ropes around you, the way they press into you pleasantly with every breath, the rough warmth of as it holds you. 

“Legs now,” Yunho says, his hands settling on your hips to guide your movements. 

You follow the gentle pressure of his hands, sinking out of your kneeling position onto your right hip, letting Yunho guide your legs out from under you’re seated criss-crossed in front of him. 

He loops the cord over, under, and around your crossed ankles until they’re loosely bound together, preventing you from straightening or separating your legs. 

The position holds you casually open, locked in vulnerability without added tension or pressure on your thighs or knees. 

He’s seen you bound and naked a thousand times, but every time you’re in a position like this, spread, exposed, it still stokes something needy and hot inside you like it’s the first time. He hasn’t looked between your thighs once, simply focused on your ankles, but the shape of your body starts to make an offering, and you settle into it. 

His fingers skim under your thigh, on the hamstring you mentioned, “Tight like this?” 

“Not here,” You assure him.

“Tell me if it cramps,” He gives your thigh a soft squeeze, “don’t wait.” 

“I won’t,” You promise. 

He checks the tension in your ankle ropes once more, fingertips feeling your pulse to make sure your circulation is where he wants it, and then he ties off and steps back. 

The absence of him is sudden, like a rush of cold air, and your eyes snap up to his. 

He’s watching you, and for a long, long moment he doesn’t say a word. You feel his gaze travel over your body, not possessive yet, just precise, a rope rigger’s eye measuring balance, pressure, breath. Taking in what he’s done, what he will do. 

“You’re beautiful like this,” He murmurs finally, his eyes tracking over the way the ropes frame you, revealing parts of you hidden even to yourself. 

His words settle something in your chest. 

Yunho hums, a small sound not even really meant for you, and then he kneels in front of you again. His brown eyes are deep, full of reverent tenderness, and his thumb skims up and down the column of your throat as he cups your neck, his touch featherlight and centering. 

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation take you. 

The pad of his thumb presses against your jaw, “Lift your chin, sweetheart.” 

Your eyes flutter open, and you’re quick to obey. 

“How’s your breath?” He asks. 

“Good,” You reply, taking in a strong inhale and letting it go to show him. 

He nods, satisfied. 

“Now,” he murmurs, his hands coming to cradle your body as he shifts forwards, “relax for me.” 

Your muscles loosen, like you’re trained to the commands of his voice. 

Slowly, he applies pressure and dips you backwards, holding your weight in his sure hands as he rocks you back and guides you flat to the floor. 

You settle carefully into position, a curve in your low back as your hips stay anchored to the mat, legs still crossed with your knees wide, your tucked shoulderblades connecting softly with the tatami mat, head falling back last like you’re going vertebrae by vertebrae to the floor. 

Your body is humming, aching tightness where the ropes cross over your skin, but you don’t feel the first flush of heat until Yunho leans away and his eyes finally flick down once to take in the sight of your spread thighs, your cunt exposed and on display for him. 

He makes no move to praise you, to call you beautiful, to reach out and touch what’s open and on offer. He merely looks away and reaches for another line of jute, and it makes the tense spool of need inside you start to wind tighter. 

“Color?” He asks as he crouches at your side, his fingers pressing down on your breastbone, searching your flesh under the wrapped ropes for his entry point. 

“Green, sir.” 

“Upline,” He tells you as he threads another loop of rope under the lines of your chest harness, squarely over the place where your ribs meet your sternum. 

You let your head fall back, eyes going soft as you watch the sway of the bamboo bar overhead, trusting the sensation of his hands on you as he manipulates the ropes into something firm and safe for suspension. 

You don’t need to look to know the way he ties. He’s talked you through this harness before, twists of rope, a secured epsilon, a doubled bight to provide the loop he needs to hoist you. 

His hands are steady, quick and experienced, and when he stands to draw the working line over the bamboo bar, your head softly rolls against the mat to watch him. He passes the end of the line, now looped securely over the bar, through the loop left on your chest harness and then with practiced slowness, he pulls. 

Your back bends, chest lifting with the guide of the ropes. 

A soft sound echoes from your lips, and you watch him check your expression before pulling more, bringing you higher. 

Inch by inch, your upper body lifts away from the mat. Shoulders no longer touching, your head lolling back as you let your head hang. 

“Breathe,” He reminds you. 

You do, and on your second inhale, he pulls the cord again. 

The pressure across your ribs increases, the harness tightening its hold around you as it bears your weight, and you feel your shoulders draw back slightly, your chest more open than ever as your upper body is pulled up and away towards the rig. 

This isn’t full flight, not yet, but it’s just as intimate, just as open. 

Your back arches. 

Your spine curves. 

Your hips stay grounded and open wide. 

The suspension line shifts as he ties things off, securing the lines into a careful lock off that can be easily released if you need to be dropped quickly. 

Yunho stands slowly, and circles you, his bare feet soft on the padded floor. 

The pose has you curved open, a back bend of subtle elegance that leaves your pelvis tilted, your breasts high, your sex open and bared to his gaze. 

“You’re stunning like this,” He says, his voice deep and warm, “held open just for me.” 

You sigh, muscles relaxing further into the cradle of the ropes. 

“Keep breathing,” He says, and then you feel the next brush. 

A rough drag of rope over your exposed belly, and then a loop, loop, loop above your hips. 

A waist tie. 

Your breath catches as he locks it off, watching your body carefully as your abdomen expands and contracts under the ties. 

You steady your breath, he doesn’t need to tell you again. 

The long line of the rope wraps and coils over the bamboo bar, giving him another connection point, another axis of control. 

This time, when he threads and lifts, the effect is instant. As he draws tension into the waist tie, the curve of your back deepens, your hips tilting more open. The delicious ache of the chest harness feels tighter as you dip deeper into its precious hold. 

Yunho adjusts his position, standing directly in front of your splayed knees, and then suddenly he pulls. His movement isn’t fast, but it is more. A new guided direction, a tug of the waist tie towards himself not towards the ceiling that pulls your body deeper into the stretch until your back bends to its limit and your hips angle farther, your cunt lifted in its display. 

You whimper, heat bubbling through your limbs, tingles in your skin and something hungrier building in your belly. 

“Too much?” He checks. 

“No, sir.” You answer, breathless. 

“Color?” 

“Green.” 

He locks off the line of the waist harness to keep you here, “Then rest,” he says softly.

Around you, the room hums. Your mind goes soft. 

There’s still no sound, nothing to focus on, but lifted and wrapped like this you’ve never been more aware. The soft creak of the rope and the rig, the sharp sizzle of a candle extinguishing as wax over takes a wick, steady breath, slow breath. 

This tie doesn’t hurt, but it does demand something of you. 

Predicaments often offer just that, a decision point between one axis of pain and another. Let one body part relax, and another enters strain, a beautiful balance of tension and control all wrapped in ropes. But this is about time, about center and space, to really accept this, you have to breathe into it and stay in awareness. The longer you spend open, the more it starts to burn, pulse, ache, and the more the outside world dissipates. 

Bound like this, your body just exists and offers. The ties may keep you locked in place, rooted where he placed you, but it’s your obedience that gives you both everything.

As you hang, the air grazes the soft, bared skin between your legs. You start to feel the ache center there too, a slow pulse between your thighs that asks for an answer, but Yunho hasn’t touched you since the last knot. 

All you can do is breathe. 

Yunho watches, circling you, studying you. Occasionally he adjusts a line, small calibrations of the knots, a little tighter here, a small shift of your weight there. Every soft tug at the tension line of the waist tie sends a new shiver through your pelvis, not painful, but a reminder of who owns it.

Your eyes close, and the whole world narrows to the feeling of the rope, the stretch of your back, the soft ache in your thighs, and the knowledge that he’s still there even when he’s silent, seeing you and choosing not to touch you yet. 

It’s maddening in its perfection

He stands there, arms crossed, the flickering candlelight catching on the long line of his jaw as he watches you with familiar, analytical silence. 

You’ve floated for long stretches before, you’ve been tied more tightly, bent even deeper, but something about the stillness now makes your skin feel thin like you’re stripped down to the nerves.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

Your breath shudders.

The ropes hold you steady as he looks, your chest still cradled, but the waist rope is cruel in its elegance. That’s the line that keeps your hips arched high, your pelvis barely on the mat, your body bare and on display. 

Finally you feel him crouch next to you again, and you tense in anticipation, your eyes opening. 

Yunho’s thumb traces the rope that cuts across your sternum and you twitch at the sensation of his warm hand. You’re trembling, and he knows it. 

“Name it,” He instructs softly. 

Your breath feels thready at his sudden proximity, but you swallow and follow his words, “Exposed,” you start off, letting the words come naturally, “overwhelmed, wide, held.” 

He hums in approval, “That’s what I wanted,” he tells you, “for you to give yourself this way, there’s no hiding with me in this room.” 

His fingers trail over your side, over the edge of the waist tie, and you suck in a sharp breath. He presses, not enough to really move you, but enough to remind you that he can if he chooses to. 

A whimper escapes you before you can catch it. 

“Need to say something, sweetheart?” His fingers fall away from the tie, and his words seem soft, seem caring, but you hear the edge of heat that tells you the scene is about to change. 

“N-no, sir.” You manage. 

With a soft hand, he brushes two knuckles over the skin of your chest, ghosting towards the curve of your breast. He catalogs your breath, your sensation, fingers travelling over your skin from collarbones to sternum. 

When he finally moves his hand lower, skimming lightly over the swell of your breast, he doesn’t apply pressure, doesn’t linger, it’s just a pass of his flesh over yours. 

Your nipple tightens at the barest sensation, and he notices. Of course, he notices. 

“Oh,” He hums, “is that what you want?” 

You suck in a breath, but say nothing. 

His thumb passes intentionally over your nipple this time, still soft, but deliberate. 

You can’t fight the gasp that leaves you at the sudden spike of heat, your body arching into the ropes. 

His eyes sharpen on your chest, “Needy, are we?” 

“Yes, sir,” You whisper, voice hoarse. 

He raises a brow, but doesn’t look up, “I wasn’t asking you,” 

You flush hard, heat pooling in your cheeks, lips parting around a soundless protest, and then Yunho leans in and the warmth of his mouth ghosts over the sharp peak of your breast. He doesn’t kiss it, or lick it, or suck it, or even bite it, he just lets his breath tickle across the skin before he pulls back entirely. 

The denial burns. 

“So pretty like this,” He muses, still not really talking to you, “every breath, every twitch. I could play with your body for hours and never get tired,” 

Your hips shift, just an inch, an involuntary move that leaves him smirking. 

“Frustrated?” He murmurs. 

“I–,” You take a breath, trying to control your voice, “I want your hands on me,” 

“They’re on you,” He says, feigning naivety, his palm brushing over your lifted ribcage. 

You whimper. 

“What, sweetheart?” He croons, a mask of concern. 

“Lower, sir,” You all but beg, “please,” 

He traces a single fingertip over your navel, “Oh,” he says, “you mean here?” 

“Lower,” You bite your lip. 

His fingers skate down until they’re resting just above your mound, so, so close, and then he pulls away entirely. 

“Mm,” He sighs, standing and circling around you again, “I don’t think I understand,” 

Your body aches, thrumming with awareness and arousal now. 

The rope creaks as you struggle to stay still, to stay grounded in the hold of his ropes and to obey. He steps around you slowly, watching you as he tests your submission, letting you unravel under the weight of what he hasn’t given you yet. 

You’ve missed this, you’ve missed him. 

You ache to be good for him, but your body arches as his fingers tap the waist line, hips tilting and opening more towards nothing. 

“Please,” The word pulls from your chest, “please, touch me,” 

He crouches by your hip, and without a word he brushes his fingers once between your thighs, just the barest graze over the line of your slit, a whisper light pass of his knuckle against your wet heat. He sighs, “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “is this what has you squirming?” 

Despite the hang of your head, you nod, “Y-yes, yes sir,” 

His knuckles pass over you once more, and then disappears as he stands again. 

“Messy little thing,” He murmurs, “one touch and you’re dripping,” 

You whine, helpless and locked open for him, under him. 

“Shh, shh,” He shakes his head, “we’re just getting started.” 

Your body is strung tight with need. The ache between your legs is no longer gentle or suggestive. It’s present, throbbing and hot, unbearable in the most beautiful way. And still, Yunho moves like he has all the time in the world. 

He watches you. Every breath. Every tremble. 

Your thighs strain softly against the ankle bind. Your hips shift as far as they’re allowed. Your chest rises and falls, caught in the tension of the Tengu harness.

You suck in a breath, but then he settles next to you, and finally, finally his hands return. 

One slides up your leg, the other cups your breast, and he squeezes both with firm pressure. 

Your body sings at the contact, a rough moan on your lips. 

“Color?” He checks. 

“Green,” You gasp, “God, green, sir,” 

“Good girl.” He says it with heat, with promise, and then he moves with purpose, one hand parting your folds while the other finds your taut nipple, his body suddenly close and real and everywhere. 

Two fingers dip through your slick slit, applying real pressure and real intent. He doesn’t rush it, and he doesn’t yet push inside you, but he explores you with his touch and with the rapt attention of his eyes, spreading you open and mapping you again like he’s relearning the shape of your pleasure under his fingertips. 

You moan, soft, wrecked. 

He circles your clit lightly. Once, then again, and watches as you fight to stay still, the rope creaking with effort. 

“You can move,” he says, “you can buck a little, let me see how much you want it.” Your hips lift, seeking him, guided by the tilt of the waist tie. It only deepens the pressure across your chest and ribs, and you moan at the compounded sensation.

You chase his touch without thinking, trying to rock into him with the little movement you’re allowed.

“Needy, needy,” he teases, “and I haven’t even put anything in you yet.”

“P-please,” Your voice is strained. 

He answers you with a finger, dipping one inside slow and deep. 

Your thighs twitch, your hands tightening into fists around the coils of rope. 

“There she is,” He breathes, curling his finger just enough to brush against that tender spot inside that makes you see stars.

“More,” You strain against the ropes. 

“Hush,” He delivers one tight slap to your inner thigh, the stinging heat of it leaving you gasping, “you’ll take what I give you.”

A second finger pushes inside, thick and sure. Yunho knows your body better than anyone, sometimes even better than you know it yourself. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how deep to press, how slow to build. His free hand rests just above your pubic bone, a steady anchor while his fingers work a slow, devastating rhythm inside you. 

You’re embarrassingly close, too close. 

Yunho smirks as he feels your muscles fluttering and tensing around his fingers, “Already?” He teases, his voice low, “I’ve barely touched you.” 

“Please,” Your voice is deep, hoarse, not a trace of vanity in it as you beg properly, “please, sir,” 

He huffs a small sound, and then he bends forwards, his lips connecting with your stomach, a lingering kiss just below your navel. He hums pleasantly against your skin, breath warm. 

You gasp as he adds another, an open mouthed caress, the hot line of his tongue on your belly. 

“A-ah, ah,” You shudder, eyes fluttering. 

“Not yet,” He murmurs, “you don’t come until I say,” 

You nod as best you can, your hips aching in the ropes. 

He keeps the pressure building, a slow pulse of his fingers dragging in and out and crooked just right, his thumb flicking against your clit, but never for long enough, never hard enough. 

He keeps you strung tight on the edge of pleasure. 

“I need to,” You sob, a breathy sound as you balance on the edge of coming, “please, fuck, please,” 

His hand stops moving. 

“N-no,” You suck in a sharp breath, “god, please, sir,” 

He sits up again, eyes meeting yours with steady calm, “Do you trust me?” 

You swallow, throat thick with want, but you nod, “Yes, sir.” 

“Then wait.” He says it clearly, crystalline in its command. 

You nod, the first tug of tears at the back of your eyes as you bend to him. 

He shifts his position, tucked close to your side on the mat. The ties still hold you suspended, back arched and hips tilted, your arms still locked up and open. He slides one leg under the suspended curve of your spine, and you feel the heat of his thigh as he presses upwards, a soft rest from below to hold you steady. 

One arm reaches around, his hand cupping the back of your head, and he draws you close to him, holding you tenderly in his wide palm. 

“You’re going to come now,” He tells you, matter of fact, “and when you do, it will be because I say so. Understand?” 

“Yes, sir,” You breathe. 

His fingers slide up and down over your swollen, tender clit just once, “I’ll count back from ten,” He says, “you don’t let go until I get to one.” 

Your breath hitches. 

“Say it,” He instructs. 

“I’ll hold it,” You manage, “I won’t come until you say, until one.” 

He nods once, and then his fingers return, slick and fast and fucking you with steady confidence. Every stroke pushes you higher, every pulse sends waves of tight pleasure rocking through you. 

Yunho’s eyes never leave your face. 

You're caught in his gaze, lips parted in silent, painful pleasure. 

“Ten,” He says as the rhythm of his fingers deepens, “nine.” 

Your breath catches sharply in your throat, a bloom of need inside you. 

“Eight,” His voice is low, grounding, “seven.” 

You’re shaking, your whole body clenched and ready, “Sir, fuck, please–,” 

“Six,” His thumb circles your clit, and your vision goes white with pleasure, “five.” 

Tears spill down your temples, your hips jerking into his fingers. 

“Four,” He continues, “that’s it, hold it,” 

Your hands lock tight over the ropes against your palms, “I can’t, I can’t,” 

“Three,” He continues, “yes, you can.” 

Your orgasm swells, hot pressure dropping inside you, and you don’t know if you can make it, if you can wait. You’re not sure if he’s letting the space between numbers stretch or if your mind is so dizzy with almost pleasure that time is slowing down, but it doesn’t matter. You’re a breath away, and you’re not at one. 

“Two,” 

You sob roughly. 

His hand holds your head steady, eyes locked on yours, “One.” 

“Yunho!” The feeling rips through you, a hot knife slicing from your center up through your chest. 

“Yes, now,” He holds you close, tucking your spasming body to his shoulder, “come on baby, let go,” 

You come like he summoned it out of you, your body breaking apart in the harness. Your hips shake, thighs twitching, your breath lost completely to the waves. 

He holds you steady, cradled against his thigh, his shoulder, his fingers still working you through the tremors to make it last just a little more, just a bit longer. 

“Good girl,” He whispers, pride laced in his tone, “that’s my girl,” 

Your release stretches long, your body wet and unspooled, and the rope creaks faintly as your weight shifts in its embrace. 

Normally, this is where he would slow down. After an orgasm like that, there’s softness, stillness, a grounding ritual to bring you back into your body as the ropes fall away, but something's different tonight. An echo of your words from the weekend flicker through you – I want you to push me. 

His hand on your head tightens suddenly, his fingers threading into your hair to lock you in place with sharp, sweet control, and his fingers start to move again. 

This time harder, pushing fast and deep into your still fluttering pussy. 

Your hips jolt, “Sir!”

You barely manage the word before he cuts it off with a kiss to your forehead, his lips on your skin warm and steady and unmovable. 

“Again,” He says in a breath, “you’re not done.” 

“I c-can’t, you d-don’t,” You’re a babbling mess, blinking and frantic. 

“I know,” He croons, “I know what I usually do, but I’m not finished with you.” 

His fingers thrust deep, a relentless pulse, his palm connecting with your clit on each hot push in. The edge builds so fast inside you that it hurts, sharp and aching. 

“Fuck, oh god,” You shudder, “sir, sir, it’s too–,” 

He cuts your words, “No, it isn’t.” 

You choke, pleasure sparking up and down your body in hot bursts. 

“You’re going to take it,” He whispers against your forehead, “you’re going to let me break you open, pretty girl.” 

You whimper, hips straining for something, anything, but the ropes hold you steady and wide. 

“I’ve got you,” He promises with a kiss to your hairline, “you’re mine, you’re safe, let it hurt, let it come.” 

Sharp sensation spikes in you, tears coming hot and fast as his fingers work you with precision and purpose. 

And then, just like he told you to, you let it come. 

Your hands relax, body going soft, mind sinking.

He takes, he gives. 

Nothing in the world exists but him, only his rope and his hands and his voice. Only the shape of his want and your body bowed to him. 

He feels the way you coil tight, strained and ready. 

“Again,” He urges, fingers tugging at your scalp, “give it to me, come. Right now, right now.” 

Your orgasm slams into you like a body blow, sharp and vicious. It feels like a release, but it’s harder, tighter and more heady, his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks as your body tries to fold together. 

His hands never let go, coaxing every last tremor, every pulse, until you’re gathered into his lap, wrecked and wet and wholly his. 

Your body sags in his arms despite the suspension, your back bowed but boneless, and he keeps his hands cradling you, his mouth at your temple. 

“You did beautifully, sweetheart,” He murmurs, his lips brushing your sweat-damp skin, “you gave me everything,” 

You breathe in, out, and shudder open. 

Your body still floats, but now your mind isn’t far behind.

Yunho feels it the second your breathing goes thin, your hands falling open and relaxed while your eyes go hazy. 

He moves immediately, still slowly but with direction. His fingers withdraw from your core and he gently wipes them on a clean towel beside him, before bringing one strong arm under your body while the other works the lock off ties. 

You feel the ropes loosen incredibly slowly, your upper back eased back to the mat first followed by your waist tie, a slow relaxation of your body to the floor. Your spine eases out of its arched curve, and it takes a moment before you realize you’re breathing harder, not with arousal or pain, but with reentry. 

Yunho cups your cheek, drawing your gaze, “Sweetheart,” he says clearly, “eyes on me.” 

You blink slowly, your lashes still sticky with tears, and his thumb gently smooths them away. 

“There she is,” 

You swallow, trying to find words inside you, but none come. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “Color?” 

“Green,” You sigh, that you remember, “I’m just… floating,” 

“I know,” He murmurs, “you did so well for me,” 

Warmth pools again inside you. 

On a day with less planned, this might be the end of your scene. You’ve orgasmed, you’ve been lifted, Yunho’s touched you in a dozen sensual ways, but today it’s just beginning. He promised you flight tonight; boneless, weightless, bliss, and all you’ve called is green. 

He pulls apart the ties on your ankles with a sharp tug, the coils falling away to the mat, but then he moves. 

One hand locks under your thigh and spins your body quickly, a rough transition into a new direction, and then he claps a hand over your chest, fingers curling into the binds of your harness at your sternum, tugging you up off the mat with a single pull. 

You gasp, the sudden lift again leaving you swimming, and when you blink away the wave of motion blur you find yourself tugged up and in his arms, straddling his waist where he sits criss-crossed on the floor. 

One arm wraps around your back while the hand locked in your harness releases, his fingers suddenly transitioning to a tight pinch on your jaw, positioning your face where he pleases. 

You whimper. 

“We’re not done,” He tells you, his voice firm, “you’re not done.” 

You shudder a breath, caught in the sudden heat of his gaze. 

“Sweet girl,” Yunho’s breath is hot against your cheek when he leans in, his voice deep, that rich dominant tone that sinks into his chest in the middle of a scene, the one he only lets out when he lets himself fully take you apart, “are you ready to fly?” 

You melt into his touch, “Yes, sir.” 

He feels the way your body sinks, relaxes, opens. 

“Obedient girl,” You feel the curve of his smile against your cheek, and then his head dips to your neck, nipping a sharp bite that’s sure to leave a red crescent of his desire on the smooth column of your throat. 

You shudder. 

The hand on your back starts to work the ties that thread through your harness while Yunho kisses the bite, pain and tenderness always distributed in even measures with him. His body curves around you, not to cradle you into any rest, but to envelop and overwhelm you, and all you can do is let him. 

Your head drops naturally until it’s resting against his, as if any part of your body is too heavy to hold up on your own, and with all the heat and pressure of his need he moves. You stay tucked tight, pelvis to pelvis, but he quietly checks your arms and hands for responsiveness while his lips start to work hot kisses up your neck. 

“I want you open,” He says against your skin, his hands pressing into your waist to drag you tighter against him, “I want you coming apart until you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t exist outside of this room.” 

If your arms were unbound, you’d pull him closer, you’d beg, but pinned like this you just shudder, “Please,” 

“Please, what, baby?” He bites at your neck again, at the soft flesh that curves towards your shoulder. 

“Please, sir,” You suck in a sharp breath at the pain that tingles through your skin. 

“Better,” His hand grips your ass, a silent warning, and then with a sharp movement it cracks down into a shocking slap that leaves you twitching. 

“Oh,” Your body leans into him instinctually, “please, sir, yes, sir.” 

He huffs a laugh against your hair as he straightens up, “That’s supposed to be a punishment,” he teases, “did I not do it hard enough, baby?” 

Your brain feels like it’s going fuzzy, and you accidentally let out a non-committal sound. 

His hand laces into your hair, tight again, and wrenches you backwards to meet your eyes

The sound that leaves you now is tight, animal. 

He studies you, a flick of a smile on his lips, and then he slides you off his lap to the floor, “Stay.” 

You’re shaking, body trembling from the orgasms, from the binds, from the way he’s touching you, talking to you. You think by the time he’s done, you’ll be cracked open on this mat, nothing but pleasured wet putty. 

Yunho steps back to prepare the rig for full suspension and you watch him work once again. He’s planned this in detail, that much is always clear, and he moves through the motions with a confident set to his shoulders. Securing a large metal ring with wraps to the bamboo bar, he checks that everything’s secure and then checks again, testing it with a firm hand before he ever even thinks about lifting you off the ground. 

It only takes a few minutes, but the strange silence of the room without his eyes on you leaves you aching, his lack of attention more punishing than a sharp slap or a firm hand could ever be. 

The rig groans as he finishes the tie off. 

He sets a loop of spare rope aside, takes a slow inhale and exhale, and then he turns and his hands are on you. 

A soft, involuntary sound of surprise puffs through your lips as he grips your body, hauling you up to your feet like you’re just another piece in the scene, another tool to be arranged and prepared. Yunho sets you on your feet beside the rig, and keeps one firm hand on your back until he knows you’re steady on your feet, that your equilibrium hasn’t shattered. 

You focus on your breath, on the rooted feeling of your feet to the mat, awareness grounding you. 

“Spread,” Yunho says, not a suggestion, a command, and then he sinks to his knees in front of you. 

Your breath catches, a spike of need bubbling, but you shift your feet wider apart until he looks satisfied. 

“Good,” He praises this time with warmth in his tone, one broad hand cupping your right leg, “this leg stays free,” 

You nod. 

He touches your left now, “This one’s mine,” 

“Yes, sir,” You swallow, holding yourself steady and looking down at him. His skin is flushed, pink across his cheeks, his ears. His dark hair mussed and already a little damp with sweat. 

Yunho squeezes your thigh once and then holds your gaze, “Listen closely, baby.” 

His voice is low, and you zero in, lips parting softly. 

“I don’t want to hear a word out of that pretty mouth unless it’s a color,” He pinches your thigh this time, and you jolt a little at the sensation, “or an answer to a question, and it better end in ‘sir’. Understood?” 

You swallow, “Yes, sir.” 

He smiles, just a little and still close-lipped, “Color?” 

“Green, sir.” 

“Good girl.” 

Your heart is pounding in your chest. 

Yunho rubs the pad of his thumb over the spot on your thigh he had pinched a moment ago, and then he starts to wrap you again. 

Your top half is already encased in the Tengu, one of his favorites for the way it opens your chest, but also for its versatility. This harness can transition well into a full suspension, and so you know already that he’ll keep it. 

Your bottom half is another story entirely. He has options at his disposal, all different depending on the way he wants to see you held. When he starts with a loop of rope around your hips though, a diagonal cut across your low belly from right hip to left, you know it’s a gunslinger and you know you’re going up on your side. 

Yunho works these ropes quickly, efficiently. A cradle around your hips, loops around your upper thigh, nestled by the tendons of your groin. The ropes get knotted together with efficiency and protective care until you’re wearing the side leaning harness low on your left hip. 

Yunho sighs as he checks the ropes against your skin, his fingers deftly checking the meat of your inner thigh where the ropes cross tight but not too tight, making sure nothing’s pinched or pained. He’s always careful to make sure that if you hurt, it’s in the way he designed, not as a byproduct of his lack of care. 

As he checks you, his hands warm against your skin, he shifts forwards. You breathe in sharply, but hold silent, your body suddenly aware of how close he is to you from his perched position on his knees. 

“Hmm,” He hums, his fingers brushing over your exposed sex, “Look at you, pretty thing.” 

Your core clenches. 

His thumb brushes over your seam, two fingers then spreading your lower lips, his eyes locked on you. 

You’re dripping, you can feel it. 

“Mm, and this?” He sighs, and you can feel the ghosting touch of his breath, “Your cute little clit? All swollen and peeking out like that?” 

Your teeth clench to fight the sound that wants to bubble up. 

He sinks into your wet heat, hands braced on your hips now to keep you steady, as he lets his tongue slide over your swollen bud. 

You moan sharply, body trembling, and your head falls back. 

He licks a deep stripe from your fluttering hole back up to your clit, pulling you into him for the best angle, and he groans. He passes his tongue over you again, and once more, and then delivers a sharp suck to your clit before he leans back on his heels and looks up at you. 

For your dominant, he looks debauched. His face is covered in your slick wetness, his eyes blown wide and hot and hungry. 

“I’m feeling a bit greedy tonight,” He admits, and then he uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe off his face. 

You bite your lip at the peek of his bare abdomen. 

“Nothing to say?” He teases. 

“No, sir,” You breathe. 

Yunho smiles, and then reaches for his bag on the table to his side. When he turns back, your heart hammers hard in your chest. 

In one hand he holds heavy, metal carabiners that clink together as he sets them on the mat. In his other, he holds a gift for you. Or potentially a test, depending on how you look at it. 

Quietly, as if he’s not driving you crazy with every little thing he does, Yunho slicks up a pink egg shaped vibrator with a bit of lube, and then turns back to you. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t talk you through it, he just reaches between your legs and finds your entrance with the slick, tapered end of the lush vibrator and pushes. 

Your body jerks, naturally, just a little, and he steadies you with a hand to your hip. 

He pushes up a bit more, and you feel your body stretch around it, accept it, and then the egg gets sucked inside and nestled right against your g-spot where it belongs. 

Yunho smiles, and tucks the pink tail of the vibrator into place, “You’re throbbing, baby. I can see it,” He flicks your clit once with his thumb, “I haven’t even turned it on.” 

You sigh, teeth locked and still trembling. 

He doesn’t say anything else, but he also doesn’t turn the toy on. You swallow tightly, and watch him work as he prepares the rest. 

His fingers work deftly to loop the suspension lines into your harness, he makes quick work of getting the loops and knots of jute tied just right to hold your weight up at the side of your Tengu. 

The rope at your chest tugs softly with every breath, and the gunslinger at your hip feels heavy and secure, hugging you with perfect pressure. Your arms are still bound, hands forward and open, chest presented and offering, your legs parted, only one cradled in the pattern of the harness. He’s taking you up on your side, you knew it from the moment he placed the gunslinger, but you’re even more sure given where he ties the knots on your upper harness. 

You’re not flying just yet, but you will be. 

Yunho is quiet as he keeps preparing, working with precision, every movement deliberate and without urgency. He knows intimately how long you can last in ties like this, but also the importance of rigging you up safely so that you’re cradled at all the right pressure points. 

Without words, he presses a warm hand wide over your belly and presses, guiding you two steps backwards until you’re in the right spot under the suspension ring that hangs overhead. His eyes flick over your face, but finding no resistance or discomfort, he continues. 

With quick loops, he secures your chest lines to the ring above, checking and double checking the secured coils and lock offs. 

The rest happens quickly. 

He clips a sturdy metal carabiner through the thick side knot of the gunslinger and threads through an upline. Dropping to his knees again, he selects another long coil of rope and begins your third anchor point, a supporting tie around your upper thigh. His hands are warm and firm, his movements sure and practiced as he loops it into a secure single column around the thick center of your thigh, somewhere it won’t press too hard against the tender nerves that run along your inner thigh or add unnecessary stress to the joints of your knees. The rope bites in, but it’s not cruel, just exacting and direct, and his fingers tap along the skin to check the resistance and how it holds. 

“Pain?” He verifies softly. 

“No, sir,” You respond with ease, but that’s not exactly true. There is pain, but only the intentional kind, only the ache you’re chasing, nothing like the sharpness or discomfort he’d want to know about. 

He nods once. 

His thumb strokes over the top line of that wrap, and then he rises, threading the tail of that rope through the ring above you to make another line for his pulley. 

You know this lift well, it’s one he’s explained to you before. Three points of lift: your chest harness, the gunslinger at your hip, and the added support at your thigh line. It’s one that’s balanced in its tension, but anchored cleanly in the center where the ring lines up perfectly with your hip, a slow tilt into your side suspension until you’re weightless. 

His movements here are slow, controlled to allow you to ease into the motion, and as he pulls that thigh line, your left leg lifts. Your body is carried with the movement until he has enough of the tie through the O-ring above to gather all the uplines into one hand, and you balance on your one foot as your opposite knee raises. 

Pausing here, Yunho cups your cheek once, eyes on yours. 

You feel yourself soften, the tug of a smile on your closed lips. 

That’s all he needs. His fingers brush over your jaw gently, once, and then he steps behind you. 

You’ve done variations on these ties a thousand times, but never this exact connection, and something warm and fluttery rocks in your gut as he brushes one hand down your bare back, over the loops of jute. 

He takes a moment to gauge everything once more, stepping side to side to review the ties. He’s tall and focused, his bare feet soft on the tatami, his dark shirt clinging faintly to his skin where sweat has built up on his chest and back. Yunho moves like he’s part of the rope, purposeful and practiced. Fluid with every step and shift. 

His dominant hand rolls, wrapping the grouped suspension lines over the back of his hand until they’re secured in his fist, and then without warning, he pulls. 

It’s slow at first, and his left hand guides your shoulder to the side to encourage your body to lean in the way he wants you. You follow that guidance, your weight all centering over your right leg as your body tilts to the side. 

Yunho inhales, and on his next exhale, he pulls again. 

Ropes drag over the metal ring, your harnesses and wraps pull tight into a firm cradle, your weight distributing across the ties, body rotating naturally into the tilt. 

He breathes again, his feet firm and spread on the mat, core tight and engaged, his left hand finding the ropes now. Inhale, a soft beat of anticipation as you balance everything you are onto the ball of your right foot, and then exhale. 

A steady pull, pull, pull. 

Ropes creak, the bamboo rig makes a familiar groan, and then, you’re up. Your grounded foot lifts, your body tipping fully to the side, and your breath leaves you all at once. You hang like this for a moment, your body still sinking low into the hip that faces the ground below, and then Yunho moves. He doesn’t like to leave you in a transitional spot for long, mindful of the strain it can have on parts of your body that don’t need it. With another breath, you feel the steady heat of his knee press up into your right hip. He pushes up with his knee at the same time as he pulls down with both hands on the gathered suspension lines. 

With easy grace, he gets you perfectly positioned on your side and starts to lock the lines with quick fingers, lacing the three uplines through the O-Ring: a gathered u-lock, a wrapped half hitch, all firm but intentionally ready for quick release. 

With the loose tail, he tucks the rope through your thigh wrap, and quickly tightens it with a coil around the upline that leads from gunslinger to suspension point, drawing them tight together so that from the side it appears you’re only suspended from the point at your chest and the point at your hip, the third rope at your thigh nestled and concealed together with the gunslinger, and effectively dragging your bound leg higher and tighter. 

When his hands are on the ropes, you find yourself focused on him, on the sensation of movement and vibration through the jute, but when he steps back to review and all you have is weight and rope, then the pressure hits. 

The wraps around your chest hug tighter and the lines across your hip pull deep against your pelvis, into the thick meat of your right hip as your weight bears into it. Nothing hurts, but it burns, a delicious kind of ache that only weightless rope can bring, a feeling that grounds you into your body even while you’re flying. 

This final suspension is a warm kind of surrender. You’re held on your side, perfectly parallel with the floor, a weightless kind of vasisthasana – as if he lifted you from a side plank into the air and pressed pause. Left knee raised, hip cradled below, spine straight with your chest just a little lower than your bottom half to protect your back and keep pressure off your lower spine. Your neck relaxes, head hanging to the side but still supported in the position, nothing like the heavy helplessness of a full inversion. 

You’re cradled.

And Yunho is everywhere; in every wrap, every line, every point of pressure and controlled breath. 

He circles you slowly, eyes carefully watching every moment. He checks the lift from each side, stepping behind you, then forward again, quietly crouching low to look at the way they cradle you from beneath. 

You can feel yourself trembling already, but let yourself relax into it, sink deeper. 

Quietly, he adjusts the tuck of the loose ends of rope, and once he’s satisfied, he steps back to admire his work. 

You’re beyond open for him like this, legs spread wide and offering yourself to his pleasure, your chest presented, shoulderblades tucked and immobile, arms still pinned in place. You’re suspended, weightless, held. You let your eyes go soft, your vision relaxing without focus, taking in whatever exists in your field of vision and nowhere else. 

Yunho reaches, his fingers gently curling over your ankle, lifting your free leg gently to guide you into a new angle. Your body rotates, a soft spin in the air, his opposite hand cupping your waist to keep you steady in the sway. 

He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have to. 

This is his favorite part, and it’s yours too. 

The way the room holds you in such tender silence, the lift, the feeling of being nothing except breath and pressure. The way you exist singularly in his hands, for his hands. 

On a different day, he might pause here. The quiet click of his camera shutter capturing disparate moments of your pleasure, your pain, the aching release of letting go. Today, he just watches. Breathes. 

The ache in your body is already deepening, a warm pulse in your arms, your thighs, in your hip where the gunslinger bites tight and holds so much of your weight, but it’s not pain. Not really. It’s all a reminder, you’re not in control, and what’s more, you don’t need to be. 

“There she is,” Yunho hums softly, his hand finally cupping your jaw, “look at me,” 

You let your head tilt, finding his gaze. 

His eyes are steady, dark with affection, soft with something unspoken. 

“You’re flying now,” He says, “let it all go.” 

With a breath, your body sinking into the lines, you exhale. You let go. 

The ache settles into something steadier, your body swaying in a slow rotation as the rig creaks above you. The only sound in the room is the rope, your breathing. Held, tilted, and bound in the cradle of his binds you feel like for the first time in days, maybe longer, that you’re not responsible for anything, not needed for anything. 

You let your eyes close, and you float. 

For a little while, Yunho lets you. He stays quiet behind you, only pressing his fingers to your skin when he wants to double check your body for safety, for responsiveness. He’s learned you well though over the years, he knows what to watch with his eyes and what to be tactile about, he knows the exact shade your skin darkens to when your arms are bound right versus going dangerously numb. 

So you hang, and time stretches around you until you’ve lost track of it entirely. 

He changes the rhythm eventually though, first with his proximity, the heat of his body close, and then with the bare whisper of a touch. His fingertips skating over the arch of your foot, drawing a tender line over your anklebone, up and up, featherlight and exploratory. It’s almost absentminded, but you feel the intention of him all the way up your spine. 

A soft exhale blooms from your lips as awareness creeps back in. 

His touch rises higher, knuckles brushing across the inside of your tied thigh, the one that hangs suspended high and open, and all of a sudden, there’s heat in this touch, not just affection. 

You feel the spark of it deep in your gut. 

He says nothing when you twitch. 

Another pass, slower this time. His fingertips press into the muscle, dragging down the line of your inner thigh, and there’s a moment, just a bare single breath, when you think he’ll touch higher and brush close to the soaked seam between your legs, but he doesn’t. 

Your teeth tighten, mouth closing around a whimper. 

His hand lifts, his body circles you again. You feel Yunho move behind your back, and then he’s brushing over your spine, skimming over the loops of rope. He pushes your hair to the side with his palm, revealing the stretched column of your neck, and his thumb strokes here once, the muscles tensing under his touch as you take a tender swallow. 

You don’t expect a kiss, but he leans in, just a warm press of his mouth below your ear, and you shudder at the contact. His lips press lower on your neck, and then again on the crest of your shoulder, again at the top of your spine. He’s quiet, he’s careful, but everything feels deliberate now in a way that makes your breath catch. 

“Color?” He murmurs softly. 

You soften, “Green, sir.” 

“Good,” He hums. 

He shifts in front of you, fingertips dragging along your exposed stomach as he does. He doesn’t touch you more, not right away, and then his thumbs both brush against your nipples, just once. 

Lines of heat spike in your chest and you jolt like you’ve been shocked. 

The ropes press tighter at your sudden shift, and you can’t stop the moan that pulls from your lips as you wake up to his touch. 

“Feeling everything, jagi?” He smiles, his voice low and warm in his chest. 

“Y-yes, sir,” Yours is just a whisper. 

His thumbs circle again, just a teasing touch that makes your nipples pebble up with just the slightest attention, and between your splayed thighs, your clit throbs once. 

“Sensitive little thing,” He sighs, and you feel your mind go pleasantly soft at his tone, “hanging here all open and aching.” 

A tiny sound works its way out of your throat. 

His lip pulls, just a gentle smirk, and then you feel it. 

The toy inside you wakes up, a low, deep thrum in a steady pulse where it presses into your g-spot. You gasp, your back arching, hips jerking in the sling. You had forgotten it entirely, lost in the sensation of ropes and air, so sunken into the lift that you didn’t even see Yunho finding his phone, connecting to the toy, and pressing start on the low pattern that would drive you into a dizzy ache. 

“Oh, baby,” He says, mock sympathy in his tone, “you forgot, didn’t you?” 

“Y-yes, yes, sir,” You twitch in the ropes again, “fu–,” you bite down on the curse.

“That’s alright,” He cups the side of your face, finding your eyes, “I’ll remind you what it’s for.” 

You suck in a sharp breath, body rocking into the pulse of it. 

The vibration inside you is steady, but not aggressive, not yet. It’s just enough to start curling heat low in your belly again, to make your walls clench down around the toy in a desperate ache for more, muscles fluttering from your earlier orgasms. 

Yunho doesn’t give you more, not right away. He lets you sway in it, trembling and aching, until the gentle pulse becomes maddening. Never enough, not to push you anywhere except into the pulsing want for more. 

You sob when his fingers finally slip between your thighs, letting the warm pad of his middle finger press over the swollen nub of your clit. He barely strokes, he just lets the sensation start to build with gentle pressure, circles that sync with the toy’s throbs inside you. 

“God,” He murmurs, almost to himself, “you’re dripping down those pretty thighs. This is what you needed, hmm?” 

You nod, breath catching, “Yes, sir,” 

“Tied up and teased until your brain turned off,”

You whimper. 

His fingers dip a little lower to catch your messy wetness, and then when the rhythm returns to your clit it’s firmer. 

“You gonna come just from this?” His fingers increase their pace, “Hanging in my ropes, stuffed full of a vibrator, and your legs wide open?” 

You moan, nodding, not sure if he really wants a response or if he’s just getting himself hard at the idea of it, “Y-yes, sir, fuck–,”

“You will,” Yunho says, “you’re going to take it and come just like this.” 

Your hips buck, and then his other hand slides up your body. It’s not guiding, not here to soothe you or tease you, his fingers curl gently around your throat to hold. 

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes flying wide open. 

He doesn’t squeeze, he doesn’t press yet, he just lets the heat and the weight of his palm against the front of your throat feel heavy, fingers wrapped around the sides. 

You swallow tight under his palm, your body stiffening at the new sensation. 

He stills immediately, his thumb stroking softly once over your pulsepoint, “Alright?” He asks, his voice gentler for just a moment, waiting for you to communicate. 

It’s new, but god, it’s good. 

“Green,” You nod into his touch, “green, sir.” 

His eyes spark with heat, “Good girl.” 

His fingers on your clit speed up, firm circles, and he lets his hand stay steady on your throat. The idea of it alone is enough to make your thighs tremble with want. 

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs, “I’ve always got you,” 

Your head tilts back instinctively, exposing more of your throat, and that seems to break something in him. 

Yunho groans, and leans in close, mouth tight to his ear as his fingers work faster, “You want to come like this?” He sighs, “My hand right here? My cock not even inside you?” 

“Please, please,” You whimper, tears beading at the corner of your eyes, “yes, please, sir,” 

His hand squeezes slightly, a pulse of pressure on either side of your neck that makes your breath stutter and your head pulse, “Not yet,” he says as the stimulation on your clit just stops. 

You scream, or you would if his hand wasn’t holding your throat, no air behind the sound as you choke out a whimper, your clit pulsing as you seek more. 

“Shh,” He soothes, rubbing a slow circle on your inner thigh, “you can wait, you can take it.” 

Tears slip down your temples. 

“Be good for me,” He sighs, “can you be so good for me?” 

Your body is strung tight, achingly desperate, and the buzz of the toy inside you an insistent pulse that makes your head swim, but you answer him, “Yes, sir,” 

He waits two breaths, and then he gives it all back.

“You take so much for me,” He whispers, “you always give me everything,” 

You choke on a moan. 

His pace picks up, fingers working fast in a messy circle over your clit with just the right pressure. The ropes creak as you jolt in his hands, arching, aching. 

“Look at me,” He pulls back. 

Your eyes snap open at the command, vision blurry with hot tears. 

“Come.” 

It hits like lightning, a sudden strike that leaves your body locked and trembling, suspended in midair as the orgasm crashes through you. Your cunt pulses violently around the toy still stuffed deep inside you, your body wrecked and open and unable to do anything but feel. 

“Good girl,” He says, voice warm, pleased, “just like that, oh, good fucking girl,” 

Your head swims, pops of pleasure and color blooming behind your eyes, every nerve ending alight with your orgasm. 

Yunho holds you steady, his fingers still guiding your pleasure with ruthless precision, but when your body turns to reckless shakes, his hand slowly loosens its grip on your throat and he slides it up to cup your cheek and then you feel the toy inside you go still. 

“There’s my girl,” He breathes. 

You sob again, relief, release, it’s all the same. Your muscles go slack and you sway in the ropes, the heat of tears sliding down your face as the ropes hold you steady and Yunho holds everything else. 

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs softly, “I’ve got you.” 

You drift. Suspended, spent, breathless and open in the center of him.

Yunho falls quiet again and then his presence surrounds you. His hands are warm on your hip, brushing the sweat at your waist. The vibrator inside you has been still, quiet since he turned it off, but your body still clenches around it, twitching from the echo of what you gave him. 

His fingers move to the lines at your thigh, and things start to shift. Decisively he starts to work, pulling open the first of several lock offs that will let him guide you back down to the ground. His body presses close as he works, and you feel the heat of him immediately, the thick line of his cock under his soft pants grazing your leg as he unties. 

You twitch at the contact, the promise of it, but he doesn’t apologize, he doesn’t acknowledge it at all. 

He steadies you with one broad hand as he uncoils the rope with the other, feeding the lines through and unravelling the support with relaxed precision. 

Each tug and slide of the jute through the support ring eases you down a little, gravity returning to your body in precious little increments. The ropes creak, the bamboo bar lets out a whine, and your body dips as you drift downwards. 

His grip tightens, and then you feel the slide, a slow and controlled descent until your right foot kisses the floor, just the ball first, then toes, then heel as you find your footing. You’re not grounded yet, not while the rest of your body is still strung up in his devotion, but it’s the first touch of anything and you exhale heavily into the sensation change. 

More ropes slacken, the support line at your thigh coming first, and your leg releases with a hiss of the rope over metal. His hands follow the line down your leg, pressure along your inner thigh and then release, a check and a tease all at once as your other foot hits the mat.

Your rock unsteady on your feet, and Yunho tucks you smoothly into his side, unwrapping the gunslinger with nimble fingers before sliding you down and down, back to your knees on the rice paper mat. 

You let out a puff of air, soft and unfocused. 

He guides a hand over your hair, cupping your head for a moment, before he slides behind you on his own knees, his chest brushing your back as he reaches around you to work the knots of your chest harness upline. You feel the brush of his body, and then, as he leans forward, the brush of his hard length once again. 

Your breath catches, and he leans into you for just a moment longer. 

With gentle hands, he makes short work of unknotting the jute that kept you so cradled, your body shuddering and expanding with every line that falls away. Your skin prickles with gooseflesh as sensation pours back into your limbs and you shiver in his arms. 

You’re still upright on your knees, but barely, your body melting and your spine bowed with the effort of supporting yourself. His fingers unwrap the crosspoint at the back of the Tengu harness, loosening the coils and unwrapping your arms with quick slides of rough rope over your flesh. 

Every touch is grounding but somehow, with the heat radiating off him, equally claiming. 

As your arms start to fall, he catches them, presses his thumbs to the center of your palms. Instinctually you grip back, squeezing him with as much as you can muster, a silent answer to his question about how your body is coping. 

With that confirmation, Yunho lets your arms fall to your sides and he shifts again, this time on his knees in front of you. Your vision feels like it’s hazy, liquid and warm as you watch him. 

In the middle of a slow blink, his hand wraps around a line still looped to the center of your chest and with a sharp pull he tugs. 

You gasp sharply, falling forwards as his opposite hand catches your chin and drags your eyes up to him. 

The heat in his eyes now is unmistakable. His want is thick in the air, and he holds your gaze. 

Your body melts in submission. 

With another tug, he guides you right down, forwards to the mat, and you go easily. 

Your knees widen naturally for balance, sinking into a child’s pose with your arms slack at your sides, and you stay there, instinct guiding you on how to fold into his desires. 

Your body doesn’t try to rise, your mind doesn’t flick through shoulds and shouldn’ts, you’ve sunken into that delicious place where Yunho thinks for you and you just exist. 

His hand slides up the back of your neck, palm dragging roughly as his fingers sink into the loose waves of your hair. Gripping roughly, then releasing, he uses the pressure of his palm alone to push your head to the side, smoothing back your hair so he can watch your hazy expression. 

His fingers go back to work on your harness, loosening knots until they’re yawning off you. 

His hands search you, seek more of you, a soft brush on your ribs and a heavy drag against your skin. Fingers in your hair, soft, then rough, manipulating your body to his pleasure. 

Then release, absence, distance. 

And all at once a return to sensation, a soft brush of his hand against your head, smoothing your hair like water over a bowing sculpture. Then tight again, and tighter. 

He drifts between both, tender softness and rough control, until the ropes are released and pulled away, and his body is nestled behind you, his hips pressed flush against your ass. 

He’s still hard, still throbbing. 

Yunho releases a tight exhale, just a puff of air through his nose, but that’s all, until he slides one hot palm all the way down your back from lumbar to cervical spine. He grips the back of your neck with that hand while the other slides under your folded body to cup your ribs, and then again he lifts you. 

You lean back up, guided into the warmth of his chest behind you, the last of the ropes that were looped and tucked under you still sticking to your tender, slick skin. 

His arms wrap around you, his thumb hooking under the last loop, the longest one that started the wraps, and he pulls, drawing it up and away from your body, jute running rough against your skin slowly with every second of his intention. 

He watches how your body responds, breath catching, thighs still clenching, naturally sinking into the guidance of his touch. 

Finally, he lets the rope fall away. 

In his arms, you’re completely bare again. 

His lips nuzzle the side of your head, breath still warm, and his voice cuts low through the quiet, “Color?”

You shudder, sinking into his chest, “Green.”. 

He nods once, head heavy against yours, and then he wraps his arms tight around you before sliding across the floor. You cling to him, but this time when he lets you go and you fall backwards it’s against the soft cushion of the plush white futon that he rolled out for you both, just for this. 

“Open up for me,” Yunho says, tilting your pelvis as he sets you down, “let me see,” 

You keep your knees splayed wide open when he shifts back, looking down at you. Your mind is hazy, warm and delicious, but even in that you know what he’s seeing. Your body is soft, loose, slick and wet between your thighs, and covered in criss crossed indentations from the ropes. 

He wets his lips with his tongue, his breath a little ragged in his chest. 

He’s been holding himself back, for hours, days as he planned this, and now it’s his turn for pleasure. Your body aches in response, and if it’s possible to get wetter, you do. 

Yunho tugs his shirt off, tossing it beside your discarded robe, and pushes down his soft pants. His cock is already rock hard, leaking at the tip and dark with need. 

He strokes himself once, and then reaches between your legs to find the tail of the toy and gently remove it. 

You shiver as it comes out, and moan as his fingers sink in, testing your slickness, your ache. 

“Pretty girl,” He says, shifting between your open legs. 

You sigh, mind soft, mistaking his tone for praise and not an attempt to get your attention. 

A sharp tap on your cheek brings you back to center fast, Yunho’s fingers firm on your jaw, “You with me, babygirl?” 

Your core clenches, “Y-yes, sir,” 

“Still green?” He asks, careful whenever he sees your mind going gooey like this. 

“Very green,” You breathe. 

“Mm,” The hot head of his cock notches on your entrance. 

You moan sharply. 

“Yeah?” Yunho looks at you with mock sympathy, “you need it?” 

“Yes, yes, sir.” You nod. 

He smirks, just the pull of one side of his mouth as he appraises your need, “Beg for it.” 

And like a trained pet, you do: “Please,” Your voice is husky, desperate, even you can hear that through the fog, “please, sir, fuck me. Put your cock in me, plea–,” 

Yunho snaps his hips forwards in one brutal thrust, driving the thick, long length of him as deep as he can get it until your hips are pressed flush together. 

The sensation of him spearing you open is like hot fire, and you wrench back into an arched cry, fingers scrambling to find something to hold. Your nails dig into his thigh, the rough texture of the futon below you. 

“Fuck,” Tears are bubbling to your eyes already as you shudder, “fuck, sir, thank you, sir.” 

He groans at that, a curse you barely make out on his lips, and then he drops his weight over you. Yunho crowds you in missionary with your pelvis tilted up, legs hitching around his hips and your back flat to the cushion under you. He wraps you up in his arms, one hand cradling your head while the other caresses your cheek, your jaw. 

“Oh, baby,” He sinks his head down, forehead pressed to yours, “babygirl,” 

You let your hands settle on his shoulders, and you drag in a ragged, needy breath. 

He nuzzles you softly, just once, nose to nose. Your mind feels like liquid heat, like you’re floating in a hot spring just you and him. 

But the tenderness goes just as quickly as it comes, and Yunho pulls back to find your eyes, “Sweetheart,” he says, “what’s the rule?” 

“W-what?” You manage it. 

He lets that little transgression slide, amused at your hazy, fucked out expression, “When I’m inside you,” he says, enunciating clearly so you have no chace of misunderstanding, “what’s the rule?” 

“Oh,” The word leaves you in a puff of air, eyes widening. 

He really is pushing you tonight. Your mind can’t consciously understand that here, in this moment, but something inside you is opening, deepening, with every moment he leans harder into the dynamics you’ve built over the past six years, every confessed fantasy, every need. 

Yunho rocks his hips once, just a deep grind to remind you how far inside you he is. 

A strained whine bubbles up, your mouth slack in a silent something. 

“When I’m inside you,” He says again, his voice low, “when I’m fucking you, when I’m filling you, what is the rule?” 

The word snaps to the front of your mind, “Daddy,” 

“There you go,” He nods, thumb hot over your jawline, “I knew you could get there, baby.” 

You can’t stop the way your cunt clenches tight around him. 

He lets out a hot exhale from his nose, smiling as he glances down at your tangled bodies, “You’re so easy like this, aren’t you?” 

You nod, fingers tight on his broad shoulders. 

“Arent you?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” You rush to correct. 

Yunho’s eyes darken, his teeth catching his lip once as he looks down at you, and then his hips twitch, his cock pushing impossibly deeper with his subtle grind forwards. The weight of it, his body above you, cock thick and hard inside you, makes you tremble. 

His eyes stay locked on yours as he draws back, just enough to make you feel it, the stretch, the friction, and when he thrusts forward in one perfect, brutal stroke you lose your breath. 

You cry out, unguarded, desperate as your head lolls back on the cushion below you. 

His hand brushes your jaw, and then his fingers apply steady pressure to guide your head back, “Eyes on me,” he says. 

You follow his guide, blinking hazy eyes open to meet his gaze. 

“That’s better,” He murmurs low, the intensity in his expression leaving your body taut and aching. Yunho lets his hips roll, slow and deliberate until your legs are twitching around his hips, “You feel that, baby?” 

A whimper claws its way up your throat. 

He adjusts, tilting your pelvis deeper with one hand locked on your ass, and then his other trails down the side of your body. It dips over your breast, your ribs, and then settles on the soft plane of your belly. He holds himself up, hovering over you as he touches you there, pressing his palm low. 

“That’s where I am,” He murmurs, his voice low and certain, “deep inside this perfect little pussy.” 

Your breath seizes, and you nod, your muscles tightening in anticipation. 

Yunho thrusts, finding a slow dragging rhythm in and out that leaves you whining, but his hand stays steady over that spot. 

You’re shaking, pleasure blooming deep, sparking through your body from chest to toes. 

“This is mine, right?” His thumb presses into your skin, just above your tender mound. 

“Yes,” You jolt with a moan, “yes, Daddy,” 

A raw sound escapes him, his pace faltering for a beat, his eyes blown wide at your words, your tone, but he recovers and pushes himself harder, his thrusts firmer, needier. 

“You always let me in,” He says in a pant, “you let me fuck you like this,” 

All you can do is nod, heart racing, pulse skipping.

“Always let me make you mine,” He groans. 

You shudder as his cock connects again and again with that tender, soft spot inside you. 

His fingers tighten where he holds you, his eyes locked on yours, “You want me to fuck it in, don’t you?” 

You suck in a sharp breath, one hand flying to his shoulder and the other braced against the mattress. 

He exhales, hot, heavy, “Want me to fill that pretty belly, babygirl?” 

“Fuck–,” Your words get strangled in a keening cry, your head swimming, thoughts sparking. 

This need between you both is new. Calling him Daddy, the dirty talk, the filthy confessions about how much he wants to see you full of him, possessed by him, heavy with what he made. It’s not real yet, you’re not sure if it will ever be real, but here in this room, in play, none of that matters. Here, with his cock inside you and your mind soft and pliant, all you can think about is how much you need it. 

He groans something else you don’t catch, and then your hand is sliding from its locked place on the mattress to the swollen bud between your legs. 

He pants, lips pulled in a smile as he watches you, “Fuck,” he shakes his head, “you want it that badly?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” Your fingers find the right pace, working your clit fast and frantic. 

“That’s my good girl,” He braces himself on his forearms on either side of your head, kissing you fast, “touch yourself, come for me while I fuck you full,” 

All at once the room feels like it narrows to the sound of his voice, the slap of skin as his hips connect to yours, the heat of his body radiating down. All there is, is him, only him. 

You tumble into your orgasm, unexpected and sudden before you can brace for it. 

It pulses through you, pleasure rolling as your body locks down, your hand tight on his shoulder as your legs spasm. Yunho fucks you through it like this is what he’s been waiting for, his breath warm on your cheek. 

“There she is,” His forehead leans heavily against yours, his hand returning to your belly, “that’s my good fucking girl.” 

Your eyes flutter, vision white-hot, the way you respond whenever he touches you like that is a mystery even to yourself but your body craves it, bends to it, and you sink into the feeling. 

He exhales hard against your skin, and you realize through your hazy, fucked out brain that he’s trembling. 

You blink hard, tears caught in your lashes, and look up at him. Your dominant, your partner, your man. He’s still braced above you, his skin slick and damp with a sheen of sweat. His chest heaves, dark red blush spreading over his chest and up his neck, and his cock is still buried deep and twitching with need. His hand brushes over your belly again, and he sighs. 

“God,” His voice is tight, his forehead still pressed to yours, “you feel that, babygirl?” 

You whimper softly, nodding against him. 

His body rolls slowly, like he can’t stop moving, and the pace starts again as he curses under his breath, “You’re still so fucking tight,” 

You moan, pleasure still hot and fluttering at your center. 

“Your body doesn’t want to let me go, baby,” He kisses you hard, groaning against your lips before he lifts his head, just far enough to see you properly. 

You can’t speak, all you can do is cling to him, your hands both braced on his upper arms. 

“Do you know what you do to me?” He asks, his breath ragged, “every time you say that word, every time you let me in this deep,” 

His next thrust is deeper, pointed, and knocks the breath from your lungs. 

“I can’t fucking think,” 

Your head drops back against the cushion, mouth falling open, nodding. 

“I can’t,” He mutters it, like he’s the desperate one now, and he sinks down to kiss your skin. Lips tender on your cheekbone, your jaw. He nuzzles your head to the side so he can work his mouth down your neck, his thrusts still coming in steady pulses, his cock thick inside you and grounding you with every stroke. 

“You’re mine,” Yunho says against your collarbone, “my girl, my good girl,” 

Your brain is soft, and you nod, weak and floaty. 

He rocks his hips deeper, his hand tipping your thigh to open your legs wider, angling you for the next stroke. 

His cockhead connects sharply with something deep and primal inside you, and you moan sharply, your entire body jerking in response, “D-Daddy, Daddy,” your voice is slurred, pleasured, syrupy sweet to his ears. 

“Oh, there,” He breathes, pleased at finding that place inside you, “yeah, right there,” 

You whimper, but he stays, grinding over that spot again and again, his rhythm tight and focused now, like he’s working you open from the inside out. 

Your body gives in easily, if there was any thread of resistance in you, any whisper of your own thoughts, this feeling drives it all out and you soften for him that last little bit, sensitive, slick, his. 

“There,” You babble, hand drifting to your belly, settled over where he moves inside you. 

Yunho moans, head dipping to watch where your bodies meet, where your hand rests, the angle, the stretch, the flushed swell of it all and the way you cup your own body with a silent plea for more. 

“Yes, baby, there,” He murmurs, awe and affection laced in his voice, “right there,” 

You sob, taking every inch. Your body too weightless and pleasured to move, but your nails dig into his shoulder as heat spikes though you again. 

“Oh, shit,” He stutters, “fuck, baby,” 

You whimper as his hand presses over yours. 

“Needy girl,” He says, voice hoarse, “is that it? You’re desperate for Daddy to come in this perfect little body? Leave you full?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” The world sharpens again, your eyes snapping to him as he pumps into you. 

In a quick rush he adjusts your bodies, your words leaving him groaning and needing something more. He wraps an arm under your lower back to hug you to his chest so that when he slides up the mattress you’re safe in his hold, and then he maneuvers you. 

Legs spread impossibly wide and open, a deep mating press, and he gathers your hands in one of his, pinning them above your head firmly, wrists tight together in one of his large hands. 

Yunho runs his other hand through his mess of damp black hair and then sinks back into you properly. 

You cry out, twitching in his hold. 

His eyes rake over you, the fantasy swimming between you, “You’ll be so fucking pretty for me, won’t you baby?” 

You nod, mouth falling open. 

“Right here,” He drags his knuckle down your stomach, a steady press of pressure that leaves your cunt fluttering, “tight and swollen for me,” 

You gasp. 

“Everyone will know,” He teases you, “everyone will know that you let me fuck you raw like this,” 

“Ah, ah, fuck–,” You pant, and he’s not even moving, but some kind of tingling pleasure tugs inside you. 

His eyes flick up to yours, and then again he descends, his mouth hot on your skin and his hips moving again, relentless thrusts this time. Your voice catches, something between a moan and a scream, but he kisses it away, like he’s desperate for your mouth, for your breath. 

“Everyone will see you owned by me,” He pants, “won’t they, baby?” 

“Yes, Daddy, fuck,” Your hands tighten in his hold. 

“Do you think they’ll know you cried for it?” He shudders, overwhelming you with his touch, “That you took my cock and called me ‘Daddy’? That you begged me again and again to fuck you full of my baby?” 

Your mind spins, eyes locking shut tight as you arch into his touch, “Please, please, god, please,” 

His breath stutters, and you can feel him getting close. His rhythm gets sharper, his heart pounding in his chest, and his voice goes soft and wild all at once as he chases his pleasure. 

“Gonna give it to you,” He groans, lips dragging against your ear, “fill you up, pump you so fucking full of me,” 

Another orgasm rises in you, a sudden tightening and pressure low in you where he pulses his cock in and out again and again, and you whimper, head tucked into his shoulder as you hold onto him through the building waves. 

“Tell me you want it,” He shudders, his hands tight on you, holding you impossibly close as he works you both up to the edge. 

“Need it,” You choke against his slick skin, “want you to come, Daddy, please, want you to get me pregnant, please,” 

He moans, “Again, say it again,” 

Your mind goes soft, “Get me pregnant,” you beg, “make me a mommy, please, please,”

He lets out a rough, choked sound, his body jerking, and then he thrusts deep one last time. 

You could swear the world tilts, everything going fuzzy and white and hot, and then you feel him pulse in you, a groan against your ear as he empties himself deep, his cock pumping rope after rope of his release against your fluttering womb. 

It’s a flood of warmth, and he keeps you locked tight to the hilt with his hand on your hip, like if he moves an inch he’d risk losing a single drop. 

“Fucking god,” He buries his face in your neck, a broken moan, “that’s it, baby, take me just like that,” 

You tremble in his arms, the promise of your own orgasm strung tight and waiting on tender hooks as he lets go. 

“My girl,” He sighs heavy, kisses travelling over your skin, wherever his lips land, “my fucking girl, god,” 

You’re still shaking, body coiled tight and still right there, right at the edge of tipping into pleasure one last time. Stretched out under him, filled, locked in his hold with your hands pinned above you and his body still pressed in the cradle of your hips. 

You feel every full, heavy breath he takes. Every twitch of his cock still hard inside you. 

Your eyes are full of unshed tears, your walls pulsing with need around him, and he sucks in a sharp breath. 

His hand releases your wrists, and he gathers you close in his arms, cradling you against him, under him, one hand at the back of your head to hold you in his wide palm. 

His hips move slowly, just a rolling rock, subtle movement that is just enough to drag the thick, slick head of him against the soft, needy spot inside you that wants more. He shudders, sucks in a sharp breath like it hurts, an overstimulated groan on his lips as he sinks into you, but he doesn’t stop. 

“G-god,” Your hands fly to his shoulders, bracing yourself here. 

“I know,” He pants, “I’ve got you, baby.” 

Another roll, still not thrusting, just smooth, deep presses as he works that spot again. 

Your orgasm builds again, cresting with a vibrating heat that floods from your deep core up through your chest and you moan. 

“So full of me,” He sighs against your lips, kissing you slow, “you’re gonna come again.” 

You sob, gripping him, letting it take you. 

“You were so good for me,” He says like a confession, “took everything, gave me everything, my good fucking girl,” 

The praise lights up your brain, every nerve ending, just as his cock grinds just right against the place that’s been begging all along and you break under him. Pleasure washes over you in a hot wave. His words, the mess inside you, the way he’s giving you everything with just the smallest, most tender rocks of his hips. 

His lips are hot against your ear, and your world cracks open when he says, “So pretty and pregnant for me, aren’t you?”

You cry out, the sound raw and caught in a half sob, your entire body locking down around him, “Yunho!” You don’t mean to say his name, but it pulls out of you in a moment of wrecked dizziness, and you cling to him. 

“Oh, fuck,” He groans, sensitive and overstimulated, but he keeps moving just to make sure you’re carried through it, just to make sure you get every last drop of his release. 

Your mind whites out, hazy, everything just a blank except the feeling of him deep in you, his body above you. You hear the blood rushing in your ears, your heart stuttering in your chest. 

You don’t know how long you’re floating before you realize he’s still talking, soothing you with kisses and tender words like he can’t stop. His lips are reverent on your cheeks, your jaw, lips. He presses one to your forehead and sighs, “Breathe, just breathe.” 

Your breath hitches with something, a catch of emotion, sudden like a snap release. 

He’s stills, just letting himself stay heavy inside, and it’s voice that brings you back, “Shh, shh, baby, it’s okay, I’m right here, I’ve got you,” 

You blink your eyes back open, finding Yunho above you. His brow is pinched tight with something like concern, but his expression is tender, and he smooths tears away from your cheeks with his thumbs. 

Your body feels loose, relieved, sore in all the right ways. 

You sob, clinging to him, “I–,” words catch, “I’m,” 

“Easy,” He brushes damp hair back from your forehead and kisses you gently, “sweetheart, go easy, look at me,” 

Your eyes find his. 

“You’re safe.” He says that first, clear and calm, “You’re home, with me in our place.” 

You manage a nod, a shuddering breath leaving you. 

“The scene is over,” He cups your cheek, “right here, it’s done. You’re safe, you’re in my arms. Do you feel them?” 

His words ground you down into your body and you swallow, feeling the warmth of his embrace. You nod. 

“Good,” He murmurs, “doing so good,” 

Your chest swells with warmth. 

“Say it back, sweetheart,” He brushes away more tears, “tell me where you are.” 

You take a steadying breath, and bit by bit the world starts to settle in around you again. Your voice is hoarse, but yours, “Home,” you breathe, “with you.” 

He nods.          

You exhale heavily, sinking into his touch, “Safe with you,” 

His eyes shine, “Yes,” he nods again, “yes, you are.” 

More tears snake down your temples and into your hairline, but neither of you are scared of them. It’s release, relief, the kind of tears that spring up after something that intimate and intense, and he knows to just hold you through it.

Warmth settles in your chest and you sigh, “Love you,” 

He smiles, dipping to kiss your lips again, “I love you too,” he murmurs, “so much.” 

You melt. 

His lips press to yours again, just soft and present, and you can feel the way he loves you with every way his touch softens, every brush of his lips.

Everything is warm. 

You blink slowly, your lashes still wet, and Yunho’s fingers gently trail through your hair, clearing damp strands away from your cheeks and temples, tucking them behind your ear. He doesn’t ask for anything else yet, just a soft touch that reminds you it’s him, that you’re still safe. 

You stay pressed to his chest, your legs tangled together, and slowly the room starts to reform in the corners of your awareness. Your tears quell, and you shift your cheek, just a little nuzzle into the hollow below his collarbone. 

A little sound leaves your lips, and it makes him look down, “Still with me?” He murmurs. 

“Mhm,” You nod slowly, your fingers curling against his warm skin. 

 He smiles, warm, a kiss to your forehead, “Can I pull out, sweetheart?” 

“Mhm,”

Slowly, he slides back and uncouples your bodies, and you suck in a tender breath at the sensation. He brushes his thumbs over your waist and settles your legs down into a more natural position, “Let’s do a few checks, baby. You don’t have to move, alright?” 

You nod. 

It takes effort to stay still, not because you’re resisting anything, but from how completely soft your body feels. Every part of you wants to fall slack and open, and you try to come back into yourself so you can feel, so you can have some awareness of yourself as he works. 

His hands move in silence as he stays seated on his knees over you. 

Starting with your leg, the one that was bound and raised, his thumb drags over the joint and presses behind, then down the arch of your foot, a smooth touch of his palm and fingers working across the curve. When you twitch, a tickle of sensation, he smiles. 

He checks the rest of your leg with careful fingers, reviewing the line around your thigh, inspecting the skin for rope burns, his fingers skimming in the indentations. Your hips shift towards him at the touch, your body seeking his warmth naturally. 

He kisses your hip without a word. 

His hands slide again, over your arms this time, lifting them one by one and giving each his full attention as he twists you through gentle motion, rolling your wrist and then massaging each joint, each muscle.

Yunho’s touch is firm, patient, and loving. 

A slow exhale leaves you, and then another, and another. 

Without a conscious thought, your breath finds its way back into a natural rhythm, the room coming into sharper focus, your head no longer completely under water. 

“Doing okay?” He murmurs gently, resting your hands back down at your sides. 

When you nod this time, it’s a little steadier, “Yeah,” 

Leaning in, he kisses your shoulder, the one he’s always careful of, and then he nods, “Alright,” he breathes, “let’s get you cleaned up.” 

You reach for him, hands sliding over his broad, bare shoulders. 

Strong arms curl under your body, and he lifts you back up, keeping you tucked against his chest as he carries you out of the rope room and into your master bathroom, cool air passing gently over your warm skin. 

Your shower is well equipped for this, a bamboo bench installed along one of the natural stone walls, and he rests you there and before getting the warm water started. Steam starts to build, the glass doors fogging, and he leaves the lights low and warm as he slips into the spray. 

Kneeling in front of you, he keeps his eyes on your expression, quiet and watchful. He tests the warmth of the water on the back of his hand, making sure it’s not too hot, and then with the handheld showerhead he washes you, guides the water along your skin, letting you breathe into the sensation, the heat. 

He moves through the ritual quietly, washing your hair first, lathering it up with softly scented shampoo. You stay resting on the bench, your body coming back to yourself minute by minute as he cares for you. 

“Lean back, love,” He murmurs, and you follow his guiding hand. 

He supports your body gently as he rinses your hair clean, suds slipping over your wet skin and down the drain. He repeats the process with your conditioner, a kiss to the crown of your head as he finishes this first step. 

“With me?” He asks softly as he lathers a washcloth with soap, his hand passing over every inch of your body with slow, steady strokes. 

“Here,” You murmur quietly. 

You watch his hands move over your body, careful of the rope marks that are still visible in places, gently caressing one with his thumb as he washes you clean. 

Your shoulders roll back gently as you adjust, feeling coming back into your legs properly, and you look up at him. With a lazy smile, you sigh, “Hey,” 

“Hey,” He leans in and kisses your forehead, water sluicing down his jaw and onto your cheek. 

“You did so beautifully,” He murmurs against your skin. 

Emotion catches in your throat, something warm and full curling in your chest, “I missed you,” you confess quietly. 

Leaning back he brushes your cheek, “I’m here,” 

He finishes washing you off quietly, and moves through the quick work of his own shower. You watch him with soft eyes, body leaning into the cool rocks behind you. 

After a minute, he clicks off the water and wraps a towel around his own waist before bringing one in for you, freshly washed and soft, “Let’s get you dressed, okay?” 

“Mhm,” You murmur as he wraps the towel around you and guides you to your feet. 

Nothing’s rushed here, he takes it at your pace, easing you into the bathroom and drying you off with soft hands. When he slips the soft cotton robe over your body, it’s gently heated, fresh from the towel warmer and you sigh at the sensation. 

Sliding your arms through the sleeves, you look up at him as he pulls the front closed and knots the sash loosely at your waist. 

“How’s that?” He murmurs. 

“Good,” 

“Alright,” He kisses your forehead again, gentle, guiding you back towards the stool at your vanity, “Sit for me,” 

You sink onto it, finding your own eyes in the reflection, and his body behind you. 

You look flushed, healthy, your skin plump, eyes still a little hazy as you drift down from subspace. With quiet reverence, he picks up your hairbrush and starts to untangle the knots in your hair, beginning at the ends and working his way patiently upwards. 

His face in the reflection is calm, still focused as he moves through his ritual of care, but fully relaxed. Any tension in his brow is gone, and there’s a softness to his brown eyes, and the gentle curve of his lip. 

As he finishes, you reach up and touch his wrist, “Thank you,” 

He meets your eyes in the mirror before bending down to kiss your shoulder, “Stay right here for me,” 

You nod, and you wait. 

He steps out of the room for only a few moments, always prepared, and returns with a cool glass of water. He presses it into your hands, but lets his fingertips linger on the bottom of the glass to steady it as you bring it up to your lips. You sip slowly, and he waits until you’ve had half before accepting the glass back, and helping you to your feet again. 

He walks you out into the living room, lights dim here too, and tucks you into your favorite corner of the couch. He wraps the robe around your bare legs, adds a soft blanket over your lap, and brushes his hand over your damp hair ever so gently, before disappearing into the kitchen. 

Your body starts to hum again in that quiet, grounded way that it always does after he’s held you through something deep, after he’s taken you flying. 

Yunho moves through the kitchen quietly, and you listen as he works. The flick of the stove, the kiss of the fridge door, a knife on the cutting board and the familiar hiss of garlic as it connects to hot sesame oil in a shallow pot. Low music starts to flow through the space, punctuated by the chirping sound of your rice cooker announcing it’s hit another hour on the warming setting. 

You turn and watch him work, and when he looks up and sees your eyes already on him, he smiles. 

You smile back. 

He cooks you something simple, a shallow bowl of dak juk, the rice porridge warm and comforting, and the gentle aromatics of the garlic chicken feel like home. He’s added some gimjaban, a soy egg for flavor and protein, and a healthy sprinkle of spring onion.  

He sets the bowls onto a large tray, and then settles next to you on the sofa. 

You tuck your legs under you properly, shifting to give him room for the food, and look up when he sets a warm hand over thigh. 

“Try this first,” He murmurs, passing you the juk and a long silver spoon. 

You sink into the meal, the first bite perfectly warm and salty, just what your stomach had been too soft to remember it needed. You hum pleasantly into the bite, body unspooling that last little bit. 

“Yeah?” He brightens a little, “That good?” 

“So good,” You nod, taking another bite, “you’re getting good at these eggs,” 

He watches you for another moment, and then picks up his own bowl. 

You eat quietly for a few minutes, comfortably, each of you relaxing into your own bodies again, eyes meeting every few bites. 

When you reach for your water glass yourself, eyes a little clearer, he speaks up. 

“How are you, sweetheart?” He asks gently. 

You pause, asking yourself that question before you answer reflexively. Your spoon settles back into the warm bowl of porridge, and you nod. You’re back in your body now, mostly, but your mind still feels deliciously relaxed, and you catalog the warmth of him beside you, the heat of the food, the gentle but persistent ache in your thighs. 

“I’m–,” You start and then trail off, searching for the right words. 

He doesn’t fill the space or presume, he just waits. 

“I feel soft,” You manage first, looking up at him, “very held.” 

Yunho nods, watching you carefully as you parse through the emotions, his own bowl back on the tray so that all his focus is on you. 

“I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that deep in it,” You confess, “if I have, it’s been a long time.” 

His fingers gently brush along your forearm, “And now?” 

“Safe,” You look up, meeting his curious gaze, “and you held me safe the whole time, I felt that with everything,” 

He lets out a tight exhale and nods, tucking that truth away inside himself, “And the breath?” 

You glance down at your bowl and then back up, a tentative smile on your lips, “I was worried it would scare me,” you confess, “that I might have to safe out of that,” 

He nods. 

“It didn’t,” You admit, “I liked it, and you were so there,” 

“I’ll always be there,” His fingertips brush along your forearm again. 

It feels like a silly thing to say, of course he was there, but he knows what you mean without having to explain it. The way Yunho is so attuned to you, so sharpened to you and your needs, the level of presence he brings in a scene is indescribable, especially when you’re trying something new. 

He smiles softly after a moment, “I’m glad about that,” he adds, “I know it’s a vulnerable thing,” 

“I don’t know why,” You nod, “but it gave me something I didn’t know to ask for,” 

His smile is softer at that, eyes warm with pride, “You were incredible tonight,” he murmurs, “you gave me so much of yourself, you trusted me with so much,” 

You reach for his hand properly, lacing your fingers together, “I always trust you.” 

Emotion tugs at his expression, but he clears his throat, kisses the back of your hand and takes a steadying breath. It’s not lost on you, now that you’re back in your right mind, how much care Yunho puts into every scene with you. You can see that in every second of his relief after when you’re feeling like this. 

“I asked you to push me,” You murmur, setting your bowl aside and sliding closer to him on the cushion, “and you really did,” 

“Not too much?” He checks, cupping your cheek. 

“No, baby,” 

“You sure?” 

“Mhm,” You nod, turning your face to kiss his palm warmly, “I’m sure,” 

Yunho smiles, “You were so pretty wrapped like that,” he adds, “next time, when your right leg feels a little stronger, I’d like to guide that leg back,” 

“Yeah?” 

He nods, fingertips brushing down over your neck as he considers it, “We can work a harder predicament there when you’re open to it, I have a few ideas,” 

It’s been a while since you’ve been able to talk about tying like this, and you drift into the comfort of it, “Next time,” you agree. 

Keeping you close, Yunho reaches for your bowl of juk and presses it back into your hands, a silent instruction to keep eating while you talk. 

You tuck back into the meal without protest, but then remember something you wanted to tell him, “Mm,” you look up, swallowing a mouthful, “Yunho,” 

He hums to let you know he’s listening as he takes his own bite of food. 

“The untying tonight,” You murmur, “I liked that.” 

That surprises him, and his brows lift with a little amusement, “Yeah?” 

“Mm,” You nod, a soft smile curving on your lips, “you’re usually… softer by then? But you didn’t stop topping, even when the ropes were off you really kept me in it,” 

“I didn’t want things to feel disjointed for you,” He explains, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, “and besides, I like you like that.” 

You laugh a little, “Massively subbie?” 

He huffs a laugh, “I was going to say soft, pliant. You get very honest when you surrender to me,” he cracks a smile, “but sure, massively subbie works too.” 

Knocking your shoulder with his, you look down, focused on the food in your lap. Flickers of his touch pass through your mind though. It’s never about being tied, the finished picture of it floating mid air, it’s always about how you get there. His hands, the jute, the dance of it that belongs only to you. 

Your eyes close for a moment, and you sigh, “You always make me feel like something sacred,” 

He stills, his spoon quietly dropping into the bowl, his hands gentle on your face as he guides your gaze back up, “That’s because you are,” he murmurs, “to me, you are.” 

There’s nothing to say, if you tried to you’d cry, so you manage a nod, a soft smile. 

“Alright,” He breathes, kissing your forehead, “two more bites, baby, for me,” 

You finish the bowl without complaint. 

When you’re done he clears away the food with ease, checks that you have everything you need in your little corner of the couch, and then steps away. 

His ritual for you is done, but this part is just for him. 

He disappears into the rope room for a little longer, and you relax into the cushions to listen. You hear the soft rustle of jute as he recoils the strands, organizing the mess back into something neat and tidy. You can almost picture it, you’ve seen him go through this routine a hundred times. 

Jute wrapped and packed, emergency tools tucked back into their proper places, mats wiped down, futon rolled away, candles extinguished and left to go cold. 

When he’s done, he turns out the lights and slides the hanji screen door shut with soft finality. 

The scene is done, it has been, but now it’s placed away, done, and honored. 

Yunho returns to the couch with an easy smile and soft shoulders, sinking down beside you with a stretch, “It’s late, but I don’t think I’m tired yet,” 

“Mm-mm,” You shake your head, “me either,” 

You curl into his side without thinking, his arm lifting to welcome you in, and you nestle against his chest. His hand settles over your hip, his thumb drawing mindless patterns into your skin. 

He reaches for the book on the coffee table, the one you’ve been reading but not finishing, and he tucks it into your lap before opening up a game on his phone, switching the track on the speaker and relaxing into the couch with you. 

You open your book, brushing open the pages and finding your place, and Yunho’s arm tightens to pull you in just a fraction closer. For a little while, you read and he plays his game, in companionable, sated silence. 

After a while, you yawn and he mirrors it back. 

“Still up for dinner tomorrow with San and Hwa?” He asks softly, “It’s been a while,” 

“If you’re up for it,” You reply without looking up, turning the page to a new chapter. 

“Mm,” He hums, “maybe somewhere outside, it’s supposed to be beautiful,” 

“I’d like that,” 

“I’ll check reservations in the morning,” 

You nod, sinking further into his side, your head starting to go heavy on his chest. 

“Tea,” He murmurs, squeezing your hip, “then bed, you’re exhausted, sweetheart.” 

You open your mouth to protest but find yourself yawning again, “Kay,” you concede. 

He makes you ginger tea while you finish the last few pages of your book, ushers you to bed with the same gentle hands he’s used all night. 

Tucked together under the covers he holds you close. Something in you just feels at ease, like he reached in and soothed the part of you that’s been fraying at the edges for months now. 

Yunho kisses you softly, your chest rising and falling to the same rhythm, his hand on your hip like a tether. This time when you exhale it doesn’t catch, every breath steady and sure, shaped around the way he loves you. 

In the hush that follows, you both rest.

[marknee]

SHE GOT AWAY SHE’S GOT A WAYYYYYYYY

[marknee]

reminder if u think u are the greatest writer to ever walk the planet then u are

sparkle sparkle

[marknee]

Y’ALL FREAKKYYY FRRRRRRR i love it

playback pussy ᢉ𐭩 mingi & hongjoong

mic check: 1, 2, 3...and a whole lot of moaning

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

✦ mingi x f!reader x hongjoong

✦ warnings: smut, nsfw. explicit m/f/m threesome, oral, rough and gentle interplay, overstimulation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, explicit language, orgasms, consensual non-monogamy, praise kink, dirty talk, overstimulated nerves, sexual teasing, public/private hybrid setting (studio), use of recording equipment during sex, aftercare, reader & mingi in established relationship

✦ enjoy 4k words of filth, mingi and joonie are my bias wreckers so this was coming sooner or later lmao

Soup.

Warm, harmless. Comfort food. Not exactly the kind of thing you'd expect to end with your voice echoing through a studio mic, soaked in sweat and begging for release.

You’d only dropped by the studio because you knew he hadn’t eaten. The bag in your hand was still warm, the lid on the takeout container slightly fogged up. But the moment you stepped into the booth room and saw Mingi hunched over the mixing board—headphones askew, brows furrowed, lower lip between his teeth—you knew food was the last thing on his mind.

“Baby,” you said softly, setting the bag down. “Have you eaten anything since noon?”

“Mm… I had a vitamin water?” he said without looking up, then immediately perked up as you leaned over his shoulder. “Wait—did you bring—oh my god, I love you.”

You grinned. “I know. But do you love me more than this track?”

He spun in his chair, tossing the headphones onto the desk. “Hard question. It’s a sexy track. You wanna hear it?”

He hit play without waiting for an answer.

The beat rolled out of the speakers like smoke—slow, sensual, laced with deep synth and breathy background vocals. You raised a brow. “This is… different.”

“It’s called Velvet Ash,” he said, grinning. “It’s kind of dirty. Too dirty for the album, probably.”

“Mm. Sounds like foreplay.”

Mingi leaned back in the chair, letting his knees fall apart as he looked at you. “Exactly. But it’s missing something.”

You sipped your drink. “What, more moaning?”

His grin widened. “Exactly.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “You want me to moan into the mic, don’t you?”

“Honestly? After bringing me soup instead of sucking me off in the hallway, I think you owe me.”

You threw a straw wrapper at him, but he was already standing—motioning toward the sound booth with a flick of his hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Just for fun. I want to hear how you sound through the headset.”

You hesitated for about half a second. And then you walked into the booth.

Inside the booth, everything felt tighter. Darker. Your reflection glinted faintly in the glass. Behind it, Mingi leaned on the console, watching you with amusement and just a hint of heat.

You slipped the headphones on. The mic stood inches from your mouth, silver and cold, catching your breath even when you didn’t speak.

“Okay,” Mingi’s voice said through the headset, already lower. “Give me something.”

You smirked. “Like what?”

“Start with my name.”

You bit your lip and leaned in, the sound of your own voice strange and intimate in your ears. “Mingi.” A wave of heat pooled low in your belly, nerves tingling and something deeper blooming—an electric vulnerability that made you shiver.

 A beat passed.

 You heard him suck in a quiet breath.

“Again. Softer.”

“Mingi.”

“Fuck, baby…”

The track played softly in your ears now. He’d dropped in the instrumental beneath your voice, looping the synth under your breathy tone.

“Now… say it like you can feel my cock hitting that spot you can’t reach without me,” he murmured.

Your thighs pressed together.

“Mingi,” you said, a little needier this time, and the mic caught the edge of it—your breath, the almost-whimper tucked into the syllable.

“Shit. Stay just like that.”

You watched him move—leaving the mixing board behind, disappearing from the window. A second later, the booth door creaked open behind you.

Mingi stepped in and shut it, the red “recording” light blinking above him like a warning. Your mouth parted, but he didn’t say anything. Just walked up behind you, big hands settling on your waist.

“I can hear everything,” he murmured against your ear, adjusting the mic so it was just above your lips. “Even your heartbeat. Wanna know what turns me on more than anything?”

“What?”

He leaned in close, voice just for you now.

“The way you sound when you fall apart for me.”

One hand slipped between your thighs, cupping your heat through your leggings. His palm was wide, warm, pressing slow and deliberate against your pussy until you let out a shaky gasp–and it echoed instantly through the mic. pressing gently over your clothes. 

He grinned against your neck.

“There it is.”

In a fluid motion, he dragged your leggings down, kneeling behind you, kissing the back of your thigh as he eased them past your knees. Then his hands were on your ass, thumbs spreading you apart, his breath hot against your cunt as he leaned in and licked a slow stripe up your folds.

“Fuck–” you whimpered, legs twitching, your voice breaking into the mic.

Mingi groaned against you, tongue flicking your clit before he pulled back just slightly to look at you. “You’re soaked already–this pussy missed me, huh?”

You nodded, dazed, one hand braced on the mic stand as the other tangled into his hair.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say how bad you missed my mouth.”

“I missed it, I missed your tongue–I missed everything.”

That was all he needed.

His mouth descended like he was starving, lips latching onto your clit while his tongue swirled fast and messy, not teasing anymore–devouring. He buried his face between your legs, nose brushing your ass as he sucked your cliy with obscene pressure, letting out a deep growl that vibrated through your entire core.

The mic picked up everything–the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth working your cunt, the ragged gasps falling from your lips, the whispered “fuck, fuck, Mingi–”

And then he slid two fingers into you.

They curled perfectly, hitting your sweet spot like he knew exactly where it was–because he did. His pace was ruthless–tongue dragging over your clit as his fingers pumped in and out of your dripping hole, spreading you wider and deeper.

“Listen to yourself.”

“That’s what you sound like when I ruin you.”

You moaned helplessly. It was all so loud–his fingers squelching inside you, the wet drag of his tongue, your own desperate, breathless cries.

“Mingi–don’t stop, don’t stop–” you panted, hips rocking shamelessly against his face.

He slapped your ass hard enough to make you yelp. “Say it into the mic, pretty girl.”

You choked on a sob. “Mingi–please, I’m so close, I’m gonna–”

“Fucking cum for me, I wanna hear how you break when I make you finish.”

That did it.

Your whole body tensed, thighs shaking as the orgasm ripped through you. You cried out–loud, raw, moaning his name into the mic while your pussy clenched around his fingers and your knees nearly buckled.

But he didn’t stop.

He groaned like he was on your taste, lips dragging over your swollen clit again and again, tongue flicking until your body jerked and twitched and kept cumming, wave after wave rolling over you until you were boneless.

Only then did he finally pull back, his mouth and chin glistening. He kissed the inside of your thigh one last time, then stood slowly, towering over you as you tried to catch your breath.

“Fuck. That sound? He muttered, licking your taste off his lips. “That’s better than anything I’ve written.”

You didn’t have time to answer.

Under the dim booth lights, his pink hair—messy and pushed back from the headphones—cast golden shadows across his sharp cheekbones. A loose white tank clung to his torso, the neckline slipping wide over one shoulder. His black sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips, revealing the deep cut of his V-line every time he moved towards you.

You had one hand gripping the mic stand.  “Baby…” Your voice cracked, helpless.

“This mic’s not gonna survive tonight.” 

You barely heard him over the blood rushing in your ears.

Your legs started to shake as the pressure built—every nerve lit up. 

“Jesus,” you panted, letting him wrap an arm around your waist to steady you. “You—fucking—“

“Better than soup?” he teased.

You slapped his arm. “Shut up.”

But he only grinned and kissed you hard, one hand cupping your jaw as your taste lingered on his tongue. His other hand slipped behind your thigh, gripping it and tugging you forward until your hips met the hard length straining against his sweats.

You gasped into his mouth. “Mingi—”

“I need to be inside you,” he growled, forehead pressing against yours. “Can I?”

You didn’t answer. Just nodded and grabbed the waistband of his pants, pulling them down with a needy moan as his cock sprang free—thick, flushed red at the tip, already leaking.

You braced your hands on the mixing desk inside the booth, arching your back as you looked at him over your shoulder.

“Fuck me here. Just like this.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hand gripped your hip, the other guiding his cock between your folds–and then he was sliding in, slow but unrelenting, filling you inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “You’re so fucking tight–gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”

He started to move–deep, hungry thrusts that made the desk creak and your voice rise. He pushed the mic closer to your mouth and whispered:

“Talk. I wanna hear every filthy fucking word.”

You moaned loud. “You feel so good–so deep, Mingi, fuck me harder, don’t stop baby.”

He slammed into you faster, rougher, his hips slapping against your ass as your tits bounced with every thrust. You could hear everything: his panting, your cries, the obscene wet sounds where your bodies met.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” teeth sinking into your shoulder. “I’m gonna fill you up so deep it drips down your thighs.”

“Do it please, want you to–” you begged, tears threatening from the pressure building again. 

He reached down and rubbed your clit with two fingers, fast and messy. “Come for me again, baby. Let the mic hear how my cock makes you unravel.”

Your vision blurred. The pressure exploded in your gut, your walls clenching tight around him as you screamed his name into the mic. 

“Fuckkk–I’m cumming—” he gasped, and then he was spilling inside you, groaning like an animal, thrusting deep as his release flooded your cunt.

You both collapsed against the desk, sweaty, shaking, barely breathing.

And the entire time?

The track kept looping softly in the background–now layered with the most explicit, honest take he’d ever captured.

A few minutes later, you lay curled in Mingi’s lap on the studio couch, your bare legs tucked beneath his hoodie, your head resting against his chest. His hand stroked lazily up and down your thigh, slow enough to calm your still-trembling muscles. 

He had cleaned you up with one of his softest shirts, murmuring little apologies as he wiped between your thighs, even though his cock had twitched the whole time like he wanted to go another round.

Now, with your pulse finally settling, he fed you bites of lukewarm soup between kisses to your hairline.

“Think I blew your mic out,” you mumbled, voice hoarse, lips swollen. 

Mingi chuckled, low and pleased, rubbing his knuckles against your hip. “You blew me out.”

You snorted, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m serious. That mic probably short-circuited the second I screamed.”

He shifted slightly to grab his laptop from the desk and hit play. The track rolled through the studio monitors again–still smoky, still sensual–but now layered with something new; your breathy moans spliced into the background like vocals, tucked between beats like a secret only he could hear.

You looked up, shocked. “Wait, is that seriously me?”

He smiled, eyes dark. “You said not to use the whole thing. You didn’t say I couldn’t sample you.”

“Babe, are you insane?”

“Insanely inspired,” he said, all smug affection. “You sound better than any synth I’ve ever layered. Your voice moves.”

You groaned and buried your face in his chest even deeper. “You’re the worst.”

But his hand slid up under the hoodie you wore–his hoodie–just to rest against the curve of your bare back.

“I’m serious,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your temple. “I’m keeping this version. I don’t care if it never gets released.”

Silence hung for a second, soft and golden.

Then, Mingi leaned down and murmured against your ear, “Next time, I want you in my lap with the mic between us. I want to feel you fall apart while I stay deep inside.”

You blinked slowly, heat curling low in your belly again despite the haze of exhaustion.

“Jesus, Mingi.”

“What?” He smirked. “Art takes commitment.”

You exhaled a laugh and let him tuck the blanket tighter around you both.

Outside the booth, the city lights glowed faintly through the windows. Inside, the studio felt like its own universe–dim, pulsing, echoing with the memory of your moans looped under Mingi’s unfinished track.

And as the soft, dirty demo played in the background, Mingi kissed the top of your head and whispered, “Don’t worry. I saved all the stems. We can remix it together next time.”

The track looped soft and filthy in the background when the door creaked open.

You didn’t even look up at first, too dazed in Mingi’s lap, your bare thighs tangled under his hoodie. His hand still cupped your hip, possessive and warm.

“Uh.”

The voice hit you like a shockwave. Familiar. Sharp. Hongjoong.

Mingi didn’t flinch. He didn’t cover you. Just grinned lazily, his chin on your shoulder as he looked toward the door.

“Yo.”

You turned your head slowly. Hongjoong stood frozen in the doorway, headphones around his neck, eyes flicking between your flushed face, Mingi’s hand on your thigh, and the faint, breathy moans echoing from the studio monitors.

His voice was dry. “...Should I come back later?”

Mingi just chuckled. “Too late. We just finished recording.”

“Did you,” Hongjoong deadpanned.

Your cheeks burned. You tried to tug the hoodie lower over your thighs, but Mingi's hand stopped you. Kept you in place.

“Mingi,” you whispered, mortified. But he only squeezed your thigh.

“Don’t hide. You sounded gorgeous.” He flicked his gaze to Hongjoong, smug. “Wanna hear the demo?”

“I’m...already hearing it,” Hongjoong said, stepping fully into the room now. His voice was neutral, but his jaw was tight. His gaze dropped to the waveform still rolling on Mingi’s laptop—the audio looped with your moans layered soft in the mix.

Mingi hit play.

Hongjoong stood silent as the sound filled the room. The filthy edge of your breathing. The tremble in your voice when you said Mingi’s name. The wet sounds of Mingi’s mouth on you, caught raw by the mic.

Then Hongjoong spoke, voice low. “This your new production method? Guess I’m behind on trends.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”

Mingi laughed softly, his hand sliding up your bare thigh. “Jealous?”

That made you look up. Hongjoong’s expression shifted—not shocked now. Curious. Something darker simmering behind his eyes as they flicked to you.

“I didn’t say no.”

Silence pulsed. Mingi’s fingers flexed against your skin. You felt the shift in the air before anyone spoke.

Hongjoong set his headphones on the desk. “I’m not touching unless you want me to. But...” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “I want to watch you fall apart. This time, clean vocals.”

Your breath caught, heart pounding in your ears. A swirl of nerves, curiosity, and something thrilling flickered inside you. Could you really let him? Could you bear the weight of both their gazes? 

Mingi murmured against your ear. “Baby. Your call.”

Slowly, shakily, you nodded.

Mingi’s hand stroked your thigh once, warm and grounding. Then he shifted beneath you, setting you gently onto the couch before standing. You watched, dazed, as he adjusted the mic arm lower, turning to Hongjoong like this was just another collaborative track session.

But you could see the hunger in Mingi’s eyes. And Hongjoong?

His gaze was locked on you now. Heavy. Unblinking.

“C’mere,” Mingi murmured, guiding you over to the couch. He sat first, pulling you directly into his lap—facing out toward the room. His thighs spread beneath you, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. You felt his cock, hard and heavy against your lower back.

“Let him watch you,” Mingi whispered against your neck. “Let him hear you.”

The mic picked up your breath instantly. Hongjoong stood frozen, watching. Silent. Starving.

Mingi reached down between your spread thighs, cupping your cunt possessively. His fingers dipped between your folds, sliding through your slick, then slowly, deliberately, he spread you open wider using just his thumbs. Letting Hongjoong see everything.

“Fuck,” Hongjoong exhaled.

Mingi chuckled darkly. “Pretty, right?”

You whined, trembling in his hold. But he didn’t let you close your legs. Didn’t let you hide.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, dragging two fingers over your clit, slow and steady.

“Come here, Joong,” Mingi said softly. “Taste her while I hold her open for you.”

Hongjoong moved like he was in a trance. He dropped to his knees between Mingi’s spread legs, directly in front of you, his breath hot against your bare, soaked cunt.

“Don’t make her cum yet,” Mingi warned, voice sharp. 

Then Mingi held you wide open while Hongjoong leaned in and licked a slow, thick stripe over your clit. You sobbed instantly. The mic caught it raw.

Mingi’s grip on you tightened. His cock rutted up against your back as Hongjoong worked his mouth over you—wet, filthy. Every flick of his tongue sent tremors through your overstimulated body.

“Good, Joong. Just like that. Tease her. Make her fall apart in my arms,” Mingi rasped.

Hongjoong hummed against your clit. You could feel Mingi's cock twitch behind you. He let one hand slide up to squeeze your breast, pinching your nipple while his other hand held you splayed for Hongjoong’s tongue.

“Say his name, baby,” Mingi ordered.

“H-Hongjoong,” you gasped, back arching helplessly against Mingi’s chest.

“Again. Louder.”

“Hongjoong!”

Both men groaned.

Your whole body shook, overstimulated and pinned down—Mingi controlling every inch of you while Hongjoong’s tongue destroyed you from below.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take more, Mingi leaned down and whispered, “You’re gonna cum now. Right on his mouth. And I’m gonna feel every second of it.”

You screamed as your orgasm ripped through you, loud and broken, the mic capturing every desperate sound. Hongjoong didn’t stop—he lapped at your clit mercilessly, drinking down your release while Mingi held your convulsing body still, praising you through your cries.

When your body sagged limp, Mingi finally pulled Hongjoong back, voice rough. “That’s enough.”

Hongjoong wiped his mouth, panting, eyes blown wide as he looked at you. “Shit… you’re shaking.”

“I’ve got her,” Mingi said softly, sliding his arms around your waist. You could feel how hard he was, pressing up against your back, but his touch was gentle. “Baby. You okay?”

You nodded weakly, dazed. “Want… more.”

Mingi smiled, slow and dark. “Thought so.”

Hongjoong’s voice broke through, lower now. “You want me inside you?”

You met his gaze, shaky but sure. “Please.”

His throat bobbed. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

Mingi leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “She doesn’t want you to stop.”

Hongjoong let out a strained laugh. “No… I didn’t think so.”

Mingi eased you forward, guiding you carefully toward Hongjoong. “C’mon, baby. Let him feel you.”

Hongjoong sat back on the couch, legs spread, watching you with something between awe and hunger. His cock flushed dark and heavy, leaking precum.

“Ride him,” Mingi murmured. “I’ll help you.”

Your thighs trembled as you moved, letting Mingi lower you slowly until you were straddling Hongjoong, facing him. His hands instinctively caught your hips, steadying you.

“Fuck… you’re beautiful,” Hongjoong whispered. “Can I…?”

You nodded before he finished. His hands slid up, tracing your waist, your ribs, thumbs brushing your breasts like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Tell me if I cross a line,” he murmured suddenly, not looking at Mingi now—just you

Behind you, Mingi’s voice was softer now. “Go slow. She’s sensitive.”

Hongjoong looked up at you as you sank down onto him inch by inch, his jaw slack, his breathing wrecked. “So fucking tight... you feel unreal.”

Your moan cracked as he filled you. Mingi’s arms came around from behind, one hand holding your waist, the other finding your clit instantly, circling in slow, merciless patterns.

“Fuck, Joong. Feel her?” Mingi rasped against your neck.

“Too well,” Hongjoong groaned, eyes fluttering shut as your walls squeezed him. “She’s choking me.”

“Good girl,” Mingi praised, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Take him. Just like that.”

Hongjoong’s eyes flicked up to yours again, blown and desperate. “Move for me, babe. Please.”

You rocked your hips forward instinctively, grinding down on him as Mingi’s fingers worked your clit, drawing a broken sob from your throat.

“Fuck… that’s it,” Hongjoong gasped. “Ride me. Just like that.��

“Let him use you, baby,” Mingi whispered, teeth grazing your skin. “Still mine.”

You whimpered, your body shaking between them, pleasure building sharp and fast. Hongjoong’s hips began meeting yours, rhythm desperate, sloppy. His hands slid up, cupping your breasts, thumbs flicking your nipples as his cock dragged in and out of you.

“You’re so good to me,” Hongjoong rasped, head falling back. “So fucking good.”

Mingi chuckled low behind you. “Don’t cum yet Joong.”

“Not planning on it,” Hongjoong snapped back, breathless.

Mingi’s fingers pressed harder against your clit. “She will first.”

Your body tightened, the orgasm building too fast to stop, especially with Mingi teasing your swollen clit and Hongjoong stretching you thick and deep beneath.

“Tell him you’re close,” Mingi demanded softly against your ear.

“H-Hongjoong… I—”

“Fuck, yeah. Let go. Cum for me,” Hongjoong begged, his voice raw now.

“Not just for him,” Mingi rasped. “For me.”

You shattered, your whole body locking up as your orgasm tore through you. Your cry ripped out of you, loud, broken, echoing off the studio walls. Both men moaned as you clenched down around Hongjoong, your body trembling violently.

Hongjoong’s hips stuttered. “I can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

Mingi tightened his grip around your waist, holding you still on Hongjoong’s cock.

“Fill her up,” Mingi ordered. “Now.”

Hongjoong’s broken gasp was the last thing you heard before he came, spilling deep inside you, his body shaking beneath you. He held you tight, voice caught in his throat as he emptied inside you.

Mingi didn’t move. He kept you pinned, kept Hongjoong buried inside you while you convulsed helplessly between them.

“Did I hurt you?” His voice cracked, eyes flicking between yours, still cautious even while wrecked.

 “No… I’m okay. Better than okay.”

“Good girl. You took him so well.” His lips were soft against your skin now, his voice pure praise. “I’ve got you.”

Hongjoong’s chest heaved under you. He looked up at you, ruined. “Fucking hell.”

“Breathe,” Mingi murmured with a smirk.

You sagged forward against Hongjoong’s chest, unable to hold yourself up. Mingi slowly, gently pulled you back against him, lifting you carefully off Hongjoong’s cock, both of you panting, wrecked, his cum leaking down your thighs.

Mingi wrapped his arms around you tightly from behind, pressing kisses into your damp hair, your temple, your shoulder—wherever he could reach.

“Shh, baby,” he murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re perfect.”

Your body was still trembling, the aftershocks rolling through you in waves. You couldn’t speak—not yet.

Across from you, Hongjoong sat sprawled against the couch, chest rising and falling hard, his face flushed and dazed. He watched you in silence, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Maybe guilt. Maybe hesitation.

Mingi noticed.

“She’s alright,” Mingi said quietly, glancing at him without letting go of you. “Don’t overthink.”

Hongjoong’s throat worked. “I wasn’t sure I should’ve…” He stopped himself, dragging a hand through his sweat-mussed hair. “I didn’t want to push.”

“You didn’t.” Mingi’s voice was simple. Honest.

You turned slightly, weak but lucid now. Your voice cracked. “Joong.”

He blinked.

“Don’t look so wrecked,” you whispered, lips twitching faintly. “I said yes.”

That made him let out a small, rough laugh—relieved. Tired. “Yeah. Yeah, you did.”

Mingi kissed your cheek softly. “And you’re still mine.”

You hummed, leaning against him fully, limp in his arms.

Hongjoong shifted awkwardly, glancing down at himself, then back up. “Want me to… go?”

Mingi looked at him for a long moment. Then shook his head.

“Sit with us.”

Hongjoong hesitated, but he obeyed, moving closer, settling beside you—not touching, but close enough you felt his warmth.

Mingi reached over without thinking, pulling a blanket from beside the couch and draping it gently around your bare skin, then around Hongjoong too.

“Just relax,” Mingi said, his voice dropping soft for both of you now. “She needs to come down.”

Hongjoong’s voice was quieter. “You too.”

Mingi let out a soft chuckle. “Maybe.”

For a few long minutes, no one spoke. The soft loop of your demo played faint in the background, a ghost of the sounds you’d made together. 

Mingi kissed your hair again, still holding you as if letting go wasn’t an option. Hongjoong watched you from the other side of the couch, quiet, his breathing finally slowing.

Eventually, Mingi spoke, voice low, possessive but warmer now. “We’ll talk later.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant for Hongjoong or you. Maybe both.

But for now, wrapped in Mingi’s arms, Hongjoong silent beside you, you felt… safe.

Ruined.

But safe.

[marknee]

"you don't owe anyone anything" You are a tar pit. Speak for yourself. I personally owe the cafe employees my dishes put away and my friends a listening ear and small scared insects a cup and a gentle trip outside. Hyperindividualism is a rancid infection borne of capitalism and willfully misinterpreted therapyspeak and I will defy it by continuing to be kind regardless of whether or not it benefits me personally

[marknee]

hey here’s a list of 600+ movies that are actually about palestine that you guys can watch instead of pretending that going out to see the superman movie is a form of pro palestine expression when it directly benefits zionists and [ checks notes ] cia war criminals ??

[marknee]

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, from a letter to Robert Browning written c. March 1845

[marknee]

bts fanfics i think shakespeare would enlist himself into the military just to show the boys.

chapter iv. ✷ chapter vi.

KEYS ON SEVERITY OF SHAKESPEARE’S STATE:

( ✮ ) — he’s not really thinking about enlisting, is he?

( ♬ ) — what do you mean shakespeare shaved his head?.. oh no.

( ✎ ) — don’t military bases have security? how the hell did that man get inside?

( ♛ ) — he’s proper pulling a cross country right now. the boys look confused. and horrified.

THE SHAKESPEARE SERIES.

WARNING: keep in mind, some of these authors are very strict on the rule that no minors should read their work if they’re underage, and i will honour that. but, at the end of the day, i am not your parent. so, there’s that. but heed my warning wisely. any smut or 18+ content is highlighted in bold.

NOTE: dear readers, did you miss me? it’s been a while since i’ve shared my secret recommendations with you. but, since the two year anniversary of this special series has recently passed, i thought it was about time i spoiled you again. i’ve had quite a while to think about this one. so, i hope you’re ready. let’s give shakespeare something to enlist for.

( ♛ ) AMALTHEA — by @daechwitatamic

!! seokjin x reader | 40k !!

best friend’s older brother!au, smut (18+), fluff, angst.

bfb! bfb! my best friend’s brother, my friend’s brother! bfb! bfb! my best friend’s brother, my best friend’s brother!

this is one of the BEST seokjin fics i’ve ever read. straight to the point but there is no other way to put it. got to the point i would wake up earlier just to read another chapter before work. i was always present, bitch.

alike most of you, as someone who reads A LOT (re: i have no credentials for this, just my mum), i can tell when someone pours their every blood, sweat and tears (ha.) into writing. and for me, this is one of those writers.

this writer really shocked me at how much i connected to this story whilst reading n how attached i felt after finishing. caught me off guard, but so did death to shakespeare… sooo, what can i say.

“it’s been over a decade since that night, and you still don't know if he meant his family, or you.” dude i wish you could’ve seen my face. lmfao.

let’s just say there’s a reason this one’s first. amazed. truly.

( ♛ ) MOON MAGIC — by @jincherie

!! hoseok x reader | 33.8k !!

mermaid!au, pirate!au, fluff (like.. teeth rotting).

“and he calls me mooonlight toooooo,” she sings into the empty crowd with tears in her eyes. she meaning me.

now i know i’m known for having a sweet tooth, but damn! youse are gonna eventually turn me into an elizabethan england commoner. y’know, the crap dental hygiene n all. (re: shakespeare’s teeth.)

but, you know me. i looooove a good ‘ol fantasy inspired fic, so i guess i’m willing to risk a little here. and this one was worth risking for.

slams hand onto the table. the world building! this writer was not playing around when it came to painting us a picture of the world they wanted to create. i wanna live in this fic i’m not joking. get me in touch with namjoon asap for some of that moon magic shit. ok, rolls credits.

perfect in every single way. this is my first run-in with this writer, but am i swimming (sorry.) my way over to their masterlist? yeeees.

“he laughs and tells you that, actually, it's probably the youngest three princes that are most beloved by all.”

yea girl. not on my watch. enjoy!

( ✎ ) ALL GROWN UP — by @btsgotjams27

!! jungkook x reader | 64k !!

friends to lovers, older woman/younger man, smut (18+).

the fact this fic was loosely inspired by one of my all-time comfort kdramas… i didn’t even have to question adding it to my list. it felt like i was watching it for the first time again… deeply sighs. ahhh the nostalgia…

i had this fic bookmarked on my ao3 for the looongest time, but it was only recently that i got round to actually reading it. and i’m so glad i did. bless her, she was waiting for her moment to shine. and it’s now.

youngest kids in the family please raise your hands! all in attendance! you are welcome and appreciated here. the feeling of desperation, trying to get people to see you as your current age rather than the little kid they’ll forever remember. i think that’s why i loved this fic so much: i could relate to it.

alike this story, most fics on here are on the older side of things. but honestly, if it’s good and genuine, it’ll last forever. no matter how much time has gone by. feelings stay - perhaps even grow?

the same for our adorable pair over here. could time play in their favour?

you let me know when you finish it.

( ✮ ) ALIVE AHA FXCK — by @softyoongiionly

!! vampire!yoongi x human!reader | 42k !!

vampire!au, smut (18+), soulmate!au (you know i had to), please read the trigger warnings.

devoured. no pun intended. though other vampire synonyms include but are not limited to: consumed, ate, guzzled, feasted etc… thank you google, after a few questionable internet searches.

i cannot tell you how glad i am that shakespeare never wrote about vampires. cuz he would’ve written my ass into that damn thing and killed me off from the things i’ve said about that guy. and the things i will continue to say…

i love this fic on a personal level. it reminds me of being fourteen again, curled up in my sheets as the sun reaches the tip of my windowsill and the morning chill settles in after a night of fighting sleep to finish a fanfic. it’s safe - i’m safe.

i genuinely had so much fun reading this story. the characterisation of both the reader and yoongi is so unhinged and playful and i’m obsessed. if i could recommend it to anyone, it would be my younger self cuz i know she’d love it :,). n she did!

y’know, sometimes you just gotta read a silly - infused with twilight puns - vampire-themed yoongi fic for the world to feel alright again.

and it did - for me. n now - for you.

( ♛ ) OLDER — by @lovieku

!! dilf!jk x inexperienced!reader | 18.2k !!

smut (18+), dilf!au, best friend’s father, age gap.

pure, undeniable and utter filth. in the best fuckin’ way possible. yea, if you could crawl into my mind, plunge into the inky depths of whatever lurks there.. this is what you’d find lying on the sand floor. unadulterated sin.

i am so disgustingly obsessed with this fic i can’t explain it, hence why it’s ended up on my shelf of recommendations. it scratches and pleases a deep, desperate itch in my brain. maybe it’s the age gap, who knows?

this writer has a talent for making us - or, me. - claw at something forbidden in an almost hungry advance. the sinner doing the sinning. and goddamn, i’m impressed. n i bet shakespeare is too. well, he fuckin’ better be.

the characters are imperfect and selfish and lustful, but oh my god i love them. add on dilf!jk with his slutty, unbuttoned shirts and you have me sold.

@lovieku you are such an amazing writer. you have such a way with how you express. do not underestimate that. i am beyond excited to see your future works :)

masterpiece. but what the fuck was that ending.

( ♛ ) HABITS OF A CLANDESTINE NATURE — by @alphabetboyluvr

!! college!jk x female!oc | 16k !!

rich!jk, waitress!oc, enemies to lovers, smut (18+).

he got, he got away! he got away! he got away! he’s got a way, he’s got a way! awayyyyheyeyyyyheyyy! yea, but didn’t manage to escape a 460-year-old poet, nor me.. so..

clementines, fruit trees, the sound of innocent laughter, wind chimes, a sheer blur of colour, soft hands. things that come to mind whenever i am reminded of this fic. a solid and beautiful depiction of hurt and love and everything in between.

this writer knew straight off the bat how to sell this pair to the audience. how to capture us and string us along for the journey of two hurting, longing and hurting all over again. shakespeare bought the hanging fruit that’s for damn sure… me too then, perhaps.

the vision for this story is perfect to me. i almost want to give the writer a kiss on the forehead.

i did write down one quote; used from the story. a way to sum it all up. “the perfect place to get lost. the perfect place to get found, too.”

if you’re looking for somewhere to get lost, i hope this satisfies that need. i also hope i come back to read this every once in a while. for old times sake. to get found again.

( ♬ ) GUILTY AS SIN — by @gldrushh

!! brother in law!jungkook x widow!reader | 32k !!

forbidden love!au, smut (18+), angst.

“it began to lose its meaning. healing. as if it were something—a destination you could stumble upon.” oh, don’t even talk to me. people died. shakepeare died. april 23rd 1616.

god, this story is just so raw in and of itself - perfectly depicting the human experience of love and loss. inevitable and sometimes unexpected. i was - n still remain - in awe.

i crossed by this fic unexpectedly and i’m so glad that whatever butterfly effect led me to finding this succeeded, but damn that action also had consequences… like real bad… haha….

i want to cry every time this fic crosses my mind. dramatic? lil bit. but when you read it, holy shit - this will make sense to you young’uns. in due time.

well, to be even more dramatic as such… my wounds from reading this are still fresh (i will sob don’t test me), so i hand the torch over to you to make of this story what you will.

please go into this fic with no expectations. go in willingly and just… fall into it. i will be on the other side when you resurface and i will definitely say something ironic.

like i told you so. xx.

( ♛ ) CALLING PRODUCER MIN YOONGI — by @bangtan-dreamland

!! yoongi x reader | 4.6k !!

strangers to lovers, just fluff all around.

now this is the bitch i aspire to be. dials random ass numbers of random ass strangers just to yap. oh yea, that’s my kinda girl. i just hope she knows she’s the coolest person ever to exist to me. i want to buy a star for her. a big, bright one.

i think i have said this before, but never ever underestimate the power of a drabble. a short fic of little can hold the weight of ten times that amount. especially this one (which i read that long ago but has ultimately ended up here - says it all tbh).

this fic is everything and more to me. i miss it when i’m not reading it, and i miss it when it’s right in front of me. it has me wanting to ring up random people in hopes of meeting my true love - which i won’t, but who knows what might happen?

also, to point out - the immense chemistry between these characters is off the charts. felt like i was intruding on my own phone call.

good dialogue? tick. amazing characterisation? tick. interesting plot? tick. has shakespeare wanting to never learn how to use a phone in case he puts this fic to shame? tick.

lol.

( ✎ ) THE LOVE PROGNOSIS — by @awrkive

!! surgeon!jk x surgeon!reader | 90.9k !!

roommates!au, medical!au, smut (18+), fluff.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarggggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh. aaaand scene!

can i be honest? y’all stress me the fuck out! and you know who you are! starts with ‘j’ ends with ‘k’. the other one being ‘s’ ends with ‘e’. but one of you i like more and it’s not you, shakespeare.

the time it took me to finish this insanely crafted three-parter was embarrassingly short. (i think i formed a dent in my bed). so when i finished i was - obviously - heartbroken, so i did what every sane person does. i read all the drabbles. aaaand the tlp social media extras. and listened to the playlist. and cried. duh.

whilst all the fics on here deserve their own kdrama, i feel this one would ruin me completely. it’s weightlifting fairy kim bok joo all over again. it’s potential is there. like, c’mon screenwriters. i know you want to. or just pay me to do it.

the characters, the yearning, the friendship - immediately gets flashbacks… - ten’s across the board!

@awrkive is one to look out for. for real. i - along with everyone else here - will be tuning in. full volume.

oh yea, whilst we’re all still here. fuck that other guy. you know who you are! (no spoilers here).

( ♛ ) LET’S GET QUIZZICAL — by @taleasnewastime

!! jimin x f!reader | 28.6k !!

friends to lovers, angst, smut (18+).

sooooo… what i’m hearing is.. we all weren’t aware flo rida’s stage name is just florida with a space..? right? right.? cuz when you say it like that..

having been a victim of multiple pub quizzes in my past (haven’t won - yet!) the dialogue in this story was fucking perfect and scary real, depicting the anxiety, thrill and pure adrenaline running through your body as you rack your brain of every dumb fact you’ve ever read and hope it’s made a home somewhere up there.

not to mention you gotta trust your teammates like your life depends on it - cuz it fuckin’ does. n park jimin being one of them? the rest of the teams… y’all better not even bother showing up atp.

i thought the manor of the story being told through its settings was.. a slice of genius. so so cool and helped set the tone too. every time we transported back to the quiz i clutched my pearls in sheer relief.

also, i wish i could’ve highlighted angst in bold cause damn! you really hit us round the head with that one. and ofc i loved it, but damn. take notes, shakespeare. we don’t have to be killing characters off to ruin mk’s life. hm?

nothing less than spectacular from our @taleasnewastime.

( ♬ ) TRICKS OF THE TRADE — by @stutterfly

!! yoongi x reader | 24.1k !!

body swap!au, soulmates!au (you know me), smut (18+), humour.

peers down through speckled glasses, what’s next..? …oh god. sighs heavily and licks pen.

so i knew from the moment i read ‘body swap’ within the tags that this concept was gonna be so fuckin’ weird but so damn good. and low n behold, it didn’t disappoint. luckily i am a lover of fuckin’ weird.

this concept is so difficult to write. the foreign sensation of a different body and trying to channel each thought n emotions involved is complicated to convey, but this author did it so incredibly well.

also, not to be that person… but that smut… i’m gon’ be sleeping soooo well tonight let’s just say that lmfao. 100/10. might go back n read it when i’m done with this.

blushing… X

shakespeare couldn’t even fathom a story such as this - and we’re talking about the guy who once wrote about an incestuous relationship between a king and his daughter.

crazy work. you are so cool @stutterfly.

( ✎ ) TRIVIA LOVE — by @luxekook

!! namjoon x reader | 5.4k !!

non idol!au, smut (18+).

to quote myself from my reblog on feb 26 2020, “why was i smiling the whole way throughout this??” n you know what? hell yea i still stand by that!

this is the second pub quiz fic i have within this chapter (surprisingly, but not disappointing), but the circumstances cannot be more different.

the first group i would join, perhaps even rally with a little. but if i’m ever attending a pub night and these mother fuckers are in tow, best believe i’m leaving. they’re not ones to fuck with yo. they have $20 to win. they mean war.

since we’re at the end, and i’m 100% convinced nobody is still reading these, soooo… i can speak my truth. someone get me on joon’s lap. you gon’ be calling me cinderella cuz it’s gonna fit perfectly by midnight bro. on the dot.

this is - n will always be - a classic to me. one that i will always return to eventually. i can dress up all i want with these big fics, but these smaller ones are always a guilty pleasure.

like cinderella returning to her mice friends (or whatever), i will always come back to @luxekook and their stories.

forever xoxo.

MARKNEE’S SPECIAL MENTIONS:

caught my attention, and deserve their flowers.

( ♬ ) THE DEVIL SKATES ON THIN ICE — by @vankoya

!! yoongi x reader | 60.5k !!

winter sports!au, fluff, angst, humour.

my love life also skates on thin ice. lmfao. especially after this.

( ✎ ) KNOCKED — by @sailoryooons

!! streamer!seokjin x f!reader | 10.6k !!

roommates to lovers, smut (18+), humour.

more like she’s about to knock him out.

( ♬ ) NEFARIOUS — by @yoonia

!! jimin x f!reader | 39.2k !!

sex club!au, gentlemen club!au, smut (18+).

lets out a long sigh. won’t be in a rush to forget this one.

( ✎ ) THINGS WE DON’T SAY — by @wintaerbaer

!! taehyung x reader | 54.5k !!

best friends to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut.

the found family trope is strooong.

© marknee, 2025. all rights reserved.

[marknee]

GIRL GET THIS OUT

Just wanted to get an idea of how many ppl might actually purchase this if I publish it fr fr. Cause just between you and me,,, I’m finishing the third draft and getting ready to advertise and market it… I just don’t know how to split the advertisement between tumblr ppl and real ppl who know nothing about it xD (that will come later I suppose 🤔)

[marknee]

dude

[marknee]

jiminrings neva disappoints yo

six degrees of yearning

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 10k

glimpse: you're associated to yoongi through six different connections, and you're just hoping that he loves you back in atleast one.

alternatively, you believe in the six degrees of separation, and yoongi's just kind of sick of always coincidentally seeing you.

[ fluff, angst, mutual pining except yoongi's avoidant so He's An Ass At First, initial unrequited love, jealousy, not really a soulmate au (but looks like it w the way yoongi crashes out every time u ignore him (except u are jus reciprocating what he'd normally do!!), reverse cards aka the turns have tabled yippeeee, redemption ]

notes: now #that it think abt it, this is a relatively light fic amongst ALLLLL my yoongis (both tumblr n patreon)!! enjoy :P

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

Yoongi doesn’t believe in connections.

He neither believes the power and the convenience of the supposed connections he has, not because he worries about the ethical parameters of pulling some strings (he literally could not care less if someone talks shit behind his back), but because Yoongi’s never found any real use for them.

His dad says that he has a friend who works as the head of security in the newly-opened outlet mall in the city, and unless Yoongi’s planning on shoplifting a pair of authentic, luxury cargo shorts (that’s in either a hideous color or has an outrageous factory defect like the zipper being stitched on backwards), he’s not really scrambling at the offer, if it even sounds like one to his dad, with his hands outstretched for the car keys.

Yoongi has also heard from his mom that she has a second cousin who’s a dean in this one university that’s hard to get into. Nevermind the fact that the department she’s heading has something to do with numeracy (and the other glaring fact that Yoongi has to whip out a calculator to make sure he knows what he’s doing with the numbers on the microwave) — his aversion towards even considering the offer of being directly enrolled stems from the fact that the said uni is literally hard to get into because the building’s two hundred years old and he doesn’t want to give himself the stress of having to talk to the walls.

It’s not to say exactly that Yoongi’s turning his back on the entirety of connections his family has and the opportunities they could offer. He’s not saying never to the chance of being able to enter a flagship frozen yogurt store three hours away from his house, thirty minutes early (he doesn’t even know for what reason) or shaking his head at the prospect of one day renting a comically large bounce house and rock wall bundle for a party free of charge.

It’s just that Yoongi has no will to exercise his connections, nor believe in them in the first place, because there’s not one that’s ever really benefitted him yet.

It’s to your understanding, however, that Yoongi’s your mom’s best friend’s son, and that fact alone makes you believe in the sheer beauty and providence of having connections.

The first time your mom’s best friend’s son, Min Yoongi, properly interacts with you— outside of seeing him in passing during compulsory family photos in reunions (where you had to take over for your mom multiple times in taking pictures because she just does not seem to ever grasp the concept of taking a photo without her thumb on the way) and video calls between your moms (where the two of you had no choice but to take over because they just kept making the mistake of calling the wrong people) — is at your family’s dinner table.

Yoongi thinks your family’s a hoot to be with, really, even with the way your dad’s dry sense of humor is rubbing off on his own and the way the wallpaper in their bathroom just keeps changing with every Pinterest board your mom could conjure. 

He doesn’t mind that much; he doesn’t mind the closeness nor the rapidly growing amounts of teasing, because although Yoongi’s always known that you and him basically grew up together without being around each other that much at all, he figures that it’s harmless.

It’s harmless for the both of you to know far too much about each other without having even been left together alone in a room, because he figures that it’s just what moms do. It’s harmless for your moms to keep telling the other random details about their lives and their children specifically, because while you know that Yoongi had once mistyped 40 seconds for 4 minutes in the microwave and almost gave their kitchen a very, very bad day, you don’t know if his eyelashes are short or how many piercings he has on each ear.

Now that Yoongi’s here though, right next to you at your family’s dinner table, because your parents are engaged in a heated debate about whether carrots are better eaten in their original or in their miniature form and you’re the only children here for this, you realize three things.

First, Yoongi’s lashes are long and dense that point downwards, and second, is that he has two piercings on each ear.

Third, is that you thank every auspicious thread in your life because Yoongi happens to be your mom’s best friend’s son, and you’ve never seen someone so charming and enigmatic up close. 

 "You could feed them to the dog so it's not as obvious," he leans down to whisper, eyes pointedly lingering at the way you’ve basically scooted all of your vegetables to the side.

"We don't have a dog," you mutter defeatedly, voice fading to a chuckle when you look up and realize that he’s too close; like he’s too familiar with you to the point that he doesn’t see any issue in having his face just inches away from you in attempt to be discreet, when really, it would take an earthquake and a half to even pull your parents out of their debate.

“You don't?" he tilts his head, scrunching his nose in confusion. "Why's there a collar and a leash in your coat rack then?"

"Because I thought buying them would pressure my parents into letting me adopt one.”

Yoongi chuckles softly, the amused smile that settles on his face making you blink once, twice, the weight of his lazy, comfortable expression almost distracting you from the way his hand moves to your plate.

"Here. That's my share," he nudges his head to your vegetables, chewing and swallowing the noticeable dent he had made on your plate without even flinching. “Rest is yours."

"But it tastes horrible," you frown. "You only want it because you're from a granola household," you murmur, the slip of your tongue making you purse your lips immediately. "No offense. Love your mom, by the way."

"What kind of example would I be if I don't force you to eat your veggies?" Yoongi rolls his eyes, resting his cheek on his palm with an almost bored (and slightly entertained, you hope) look to his face.

You should be grateful that he even considered helping you out, but it just doesn’t hit you yet. You don’t want to count your blessings immediately because Yoongi doesn’t look like he’s going to stop being gratuitous anytime soon.

Almost as if you don’t see him leaving your thread of connections within the future.

"Fine. Just one more spoonful,” he yields, mistaking the wistful, dazed, and slightly unhinged expression behind your eyes (you wonder if Yoongi knows about the sidewalk rule, or what side of the bed does he sleep on, and whether or not he’s the type to jump to your family plan or the other way around) for genuine distraught over him not helping you.

You can’t help but feel a little too fulfilled; a little too prideful of being connected to Yoongi, who’d clear the mountain of vegetables on your plate when your mom’s in a crazy, nutty health kick, even if you’ve never gotten the opportunity growing up to ask him what flavor of scented erasers he liked nibbling on or when his first kiss was.

You like Yoongi.

You like him and his ginger hair and the undercut that’s working really well for him, even more than your older sister’s best friend’s cousin who sells imported factory overruns of your favorite jeans (read: the Japanese selvedge denim that you’d never tell anyone where you got it from when they react to your pictures).

You like him and his habit of chewing on nothing when your conversation dwindles and you’re still racking your brain for tangents to continue it, even more than your uncle’s ex-wife’s (who always had you as her favorite) new husband’s food truck that sells your favorite baked potatoes.

You know you would like Yoongi, whether or not he’s your mom’s best friend’s son — it’s that simple.

It’s not so simple, however, when he lingers by the edge of the living room when he hears the telltale patter of your parents ramping up to say their goodbyes, right after decimating each other’s Letterboxd reviews. You didn’t want him to go just yet; you wanted to hear more of his stupid opinions and see his stupidly handsome face even longer.

"You know, it wouldn't be so bad if you just bring home a dog and then ask for permission later," he hums. ”It's not like they can do anything about it."

"And have me and the dog brought back to the shelter?"

"I can convince my mom to have your mom go easy on you," Yoongi shrugs.

"But she's a cat person and mom's just— she's a person, alright. She doesn't even want to have a pet fish."

"Who do you think made her a cat person?" Yoongi snorts, slightly struggling to put his coat on which makes you have the knee-jerk reaction of scrambling to help him, the sincerity (and almost rabid eagerness) of your hands making his eyes widen momentarily. ”I brought in a stray, then she made me sleep out in the porch for a night, but now? She literally cradles Miso to sleep."

It should just be another tidbit about Yoongi that you’re supposed to forget.

It should just be another seemingly insignificant nugget of information that would awe you, but never endear you to the point that you find yourself thinking about him and your red thread (one that you keep tugging on telepathically because although you exchanged numbers and socials, he’s not doing… anything) — something that wouldn’t keep you up at night.

Yoongi and his horrible, godforsaken influence don’t leave you at all.

Yoongi, your mom’s best friend’s son, and the stupid, detailed facts you know about him linger in your system like a red thread stands out on the pink linen runner in your family’s dining table.

You text Yoongi, late in the night, just once, with a picture of a comically large, skrunkly, and funky-looking dog on your lap, whom you could finally call your own.

her name’s veggie :]

Yoongi sends just one text back in the morning, attached with a picture of Miso sprawled out, sleeping on his shoulder with remnants of cardboard in her mouth. 

yippee!!!!!!!

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your ear seeding guy’s roommate. 

Jin who’s not really a licensed auriculotherapist, but who’s your age and Just Happens to be fond of sticking little tiny beads on his ears and his clients (three including you and himself), doesn’t have an actual shop he could call his own yet.

To have one, it would mean he actually needs to get a certification for what he’s doing instead of practicing his self-taught degree from Reddit University, with his esteemed professors being his grandparents, his parents on a good day (when they’re not being undermined by their parents), and some person aliased Jay M. Rings on Etsy who not only sells him his equipment, but keeps answering his questions.

More importantly, Jin (whom you only knew of because he was sat next to you in the library and flicked your conch when he heard your stomach audibly grumble) would need to rent out a place that would bleed him dry, assuming nobody would pay the ideal 400% upcharge to your existing payment so he could keep the spot.

It doesn’t bother you at all that Jin keeps the ear beads next to the orange juice in his fridge. It doesn’t make your brows draw knowing that he forgets to ask you atleast 75% of the time what you were in for before he starts working. It doesn’t even perplex you when you hear Jin hum for two solid minutes right after you ask him what could possibly happen to you if said beads were to fall right into your ear canal.

The only singular time that Jin, your uncertified but family-trained auriculotherapist, actually makes you perk up into attention is when he leaves you momentarily in the living room of his shared dorm, muttering how you might see his roommate but you’ve got nothing to worry about because “he could be an ass sometimes, but he’s polite to strangers” — is that he’s never really told you that he lives with Yoongi.

Jin, bless his heart, who had no reason to ever assume that you know Yoongi in the first place, was right to leave you momentarily in the presence of his friend who’s just as confused to see you sitting on his stool in the counter.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he mutters, the supposed playful thrum of his voice sounding far too real towards the end.

Yoongi’s not even dressed for class or work by the looks of it. Instead, he looks every bit the other paying half of the dorm you’re in. From his ginger hair that’s toned down and a little longer than the last time you saw him (read: it’s much longer judging by his roots, but you can’t even think about that right now), all the way to how his sleep shirt features the silhouette of an actor for a superhero that’s long been cancelled before, you have no doubt that it’s your mom’s best friend’s son staring you down.

“Yoongi,” you smile, voice a little breathless despite having done nothing at all prior to seeing him in the flesh. “Why are you here?” you ask, the lump in your throat making it impossibly discreet that you’ve long connected the dots even before you could utter a response to him.

“I live here,” he snorts, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to make himself look a little more presentable (but not that he cares or anything). “Are you here… for me?”

You have no doubt that it’s your ear seeding guy’s roommate who’s making your brain fuzzy.

“I want to say so,” you chuckle, nibbling on your bottom lip. “But I don’t think you do ear seeding like your roommate does.”

“You know that Jin only has three patients right? Me, himself, and I don’t know who the third one is, but he told me that it’s his first client ever.”

“That would be me.”

“Oh,” Yoongi deadpans, narrowing his eyes. “You know he’s not certified, right?”

“I know,” you nod, trailing off as you look down at the floor to try and not to look like an utter fool in front of Yoongi who looks way too lax about your unexpected meeting. “And he doesn’t even charge that much for someone who can’t legally do this, but am I crazy?” you murmur, fading into a whisper as Yoongi stalks towards you on the counter, working around your figure as he fishes for the orange juice. “Am I crazy for feeling that Jin… makes it work?”

“I’ve been in denial about it for as long as I could, if that helps,” Yoongi whispers back, surprisingly not weirded out with the way your voice had dropped as he gives you your own glass wordlessly. “I pay him to do it, but I don’t want it to get into his head that he might actually be onto something.”

“Right? I think it’s a-…”

“What are we whispering about?” 

Jin comes out of nowhere and you practically jump out of your skin at his interruption, your ass just seconds away from dropping to the floor if not for the very glaring realization that Yoongi’s here; that your body’s split-second response could possibly dictate your entire future with Yoongi, and that your embarrassment would seal the horrid fate of both your threads.

“You guys know each other or something?”

“Sort of,” Yoongi answers for the both of you, looking at you with his eyes thinking out loud as he ignores Jin’s muttering of why he wasn’t poured a glass of orange juice. “Y/N’s my… mom’s best friend’s daughter.”

“Yeah,” you affirm, testing the words on your tongue. “And Yoongi’s… my friend?”

He only shrugs.

“That works too.”

It could and it would work for you, because the way Yoongi lingers around you as Jin works on your ears gives you a different type of constipation that not one cold, tiny bead could fix.

It should work for you, because you’ve never been this ecstatic over incidental connections in your lifetime; not when you learned that you can get 20% off your breakfast muffin orders from this famous joint in the city because your great-grandpa was the first cashier for it maybe a hundred years ago (you do not have a grasp on time past your parents’ ages), nor when you found out that the librarian is the stepmom of the kid you used to babysit and she’d let you bring home anything you want.

“Stop talking to Y/N, Yoongi,” Jin grumbles at some point, exhaling more pointedly than usual when he doesn’t get to stick the bead at the exact pressure point that he needed to. “Her ears are too warm right now.”

“No, they’re not,” you immediately retort, the sharp flit of your gaze to him making him mockingly curl his upper lip at you, rolling his eyes at your denial.

It must work for you, because even Jin, your ear seeding guy, could tell that whatever crush or admiration you have for Yoongi would be devastating — it’d be only endearing, if and only if, it was requited.

Yoongi texts you sometime in the evening, a few too many hours later after you left his apartment. You weren’t necessarily expecting for him to holler at you by the doorframe, asking you to give him a call to let him know you made it back safe; Yoongi didn’t require that of you, and it should be okay.

You’re only friends. 

You’re only a friend who unknowingly drank from his favorite, always-washed-and-dried mug, and he’s only a friend who had texted you at 8 in the evening with a picture of Miso on his mom’s lap 

one time i woke up with two less beads on my ear and i never questioned it

You’re only a friend who rapid-fire texts your dad for a picture of Veggie just to immediately reply to Yoongi, even if said image you receive is a live photo of her snoring with the flash going off on her snout.

there would be No Answers either :D

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your little brother’s dentist’s godson. 

In an attempt at self-preservation (read: working a job wherein he doesn’t feel the need to brawl when faced with a customer with a phone whipped out), Yoongi finally relents to trying one of his connections over the break.

It’s fairly easy, really. He doesn’t have to spend his day looking down on other people’s mouths nor hold the suction for the dentist on duty or anything at all; Yoongi’s not exactly making bank, but all he has to do is be a pretty face in the reception area, schedule appointments here and there, type out a few Excel sheets, and his godmother swears that’s it.

You only wish those were the actual things in his job description, because as soon as you walk in through the double doors, you convince yourself through hell and back that Yoongi’s here for every other reason besides working his summer job.

You wait for the other shoe to drop, for him to telepathically communicate to you (without even making eye contact), that he’s been significantly older than you all this time and that he has a DMD degree and he’s only been humoring you during all your previous interactions, and all the aforementioned is a nudge to letting you down slowly.

You wait for it to hit you that perhaps it’s not really Yoongi-Yoongi whose side profile is facing you, but instead some random guy that has one of those faces, while your little brother waits for you to resume functioning again.

He’s dressed in scrubs, but Yoongi has one of those faces which you could tell have never worn scrubs before. It doesn’t look natural in his frame with the way he looks too foreign and polished in them, almost as if he’s never even stretched upward to pick up something from a cupboard or twisted his arms laterally to get rid of the aches in them. 

Yoongi looks like he doesn’t belong in the dentist’s office thirty minutes away from your childhood home, until he blurts out your name in equal confusion.

"Y/N?" he tilts his head, the unsure tone that coats his words making you snap into attention, walking towards him with a renewed purpose in your steps. “What are you... doing here?"

"I'm here to hold his hand," you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, waving your occupied hand proudly (when just awhile ago you were complaining how clammy your brother’s hand was) with a hesitant smile. "What are you doing here?"

Yoongi’s lips part in astonishment, almost as if he didn’t count on you returning the question to him. He loosely points to the framed picture of the dentist behind him, the chuckle that leaves him making you nod eagerly even before the words could leave him, making it painfully obvious that you already connected the dots to some sort of degree, but you still want to hear him speak nonetheless.

"She's uh, she's my godmom and I'm putting in some hours.”

"Are you getting paid?" you blurt out, eyes later widening when it registers to you that your desperation to keep your conversation going knows no bounds as long as it involves Yoongi, making you swallow your own shame with a cough. “Sorry. I'm just a little nosy.”

Yoongi clears his throat at that, pursing his lips in genuine thought at the (valid) question. ”Uhm, not exactly, I think? I get handed money at the end of the day but really, it's not-..."

You wanted nothing more than to retract your question even before Yoongi could muster finishing his train of thought.

You wanted nothing more than the ground to swallow you whole when Yoongi can’t even finish answering your question, to which you already seemingly crossed a line with, because he’s preoccupied.

Yoongi’s not preoccupied with the way your brother’s started drifting away from you, even with his hand still clasped to yours, except this time he’s treading closer to the reception desk where he stands in, body language glaringly evident that if you were to even loosen your hold on him for a split second, he’ll hide behind Yoongi’s feet to avoid getting his routine cleaning.

He’s not distracted either with the way you keep blinking up at him as if you were communicating your admiration for him in Morse code, nor with the way your lips are still parted with the next awaiting conversation greaser if he were to stall.

Yoongi does stall, not because of you, but because of the woman that strolls into the clinic and past him, her manicured hand grazing past his midsection in the process.

"Hi, Yoongs.”

"Hey, Jisun,” Yoongi immediately replies with a sheepish smile, his hand buffering by his side to return the touch with a gentle pat as his eyes follow her, the flustered lump on his throat making him cough sharply.

Oh.

It’s not Yoongi who doesn’t belong here — it’s you.

"It's more for the experience, then? Not the pay?" you try to finish his thought for him, your voice on the verge of fading if not for the little drops of self-preservation in your throat that keep you standing upright.

Yoongi doesn’t look embarrassed over you seeing the interaction unfold, and he’s not uneasy either. He just looks sheepish… almost pitiful that you had to see something so unnervingly warm and intimate without even meaning to.

“That's one way to put it."

Without another word, you nod firmly and he takes that as his signal to actually do his job.

Without another glance, you do your job and hold your little brother’s hand throughout his appointment, steeling your nerves every time you hear the door to his room open because it would be pointless to look back. There’s no way it’s Yoongi finding an apt reason to linger near you, and there’s no way either for you to come back for conjuring such an expectation.

Yoongi rings you up with no discounts (he's not sure if he's even allowed to) yet he leans in just enough to ruffle your brother’s hair, gaze fixed on him before it flits to you briefly.

"Good job, buddy. Go pester your sister for some ice cream,” he hums, the almost-customary, dry-humored, and slightly playful goodbye rekindling a little bit of hope in you, enough to make you look up from your shoes without worrying if you have to see Yoongi’s midsection grazed by a hand that isn’t yours, again. ”Say hi to Veggie for me."

You nod tightly in obligation.

"I hope Miso's well."

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s sister is the amateur hairdresser who gave you a bad haircut for free in cosmetology school.

For the record, you weren’t searching up Yoongi’s family name and making up a family tree as you went in order to find ways to be closer to him. That wasn’t the case at all.

The only pressing situation you had last night on-hand was that your mind was plagued with the saying that hair apparently holds memories, and after a few barely-passing major exams here and there that hours of doom-scrolling and back-to-back partying couldn’t fix, and you decided then and there that you’d get a haircut first thing in the morning.

Your budget wasn’t that of a pressing issue (it’s no match to the marks on your university portal you could only blankly stare at), but it’s truly up there. You couldn’t afford to go to your usual salon, which although may not be the most expensive salon there is in the city (but they did serve iced drinks in-house so that atleast counts for something), would still set you back a few good meals throughout the next two weeks if you were to book an appointment.

You had no choice but to suck it up. You wanted change and you wanted it quick for a fraction of the usual cost, and that’s why you ended up in the cosmetology school just a few blocks away from your dorm. You only knew five minutes prior to walking there, thanks to a classmate, that they offer services for cheap and that most of the time they end up being actually really good, and you didn’t need to hear any more after that.

In hindsight, however, you should’ve stuck around to hear more.

You should’ve stuck around to hear that getting A+ (maybe even C-) treatment at a cosmetology school is basically entering the lottery, and that you shouldn’t have had a perk in your step walking to there because a higher power, whether it’s up in heaven or just a few blocks away, would mistake it for you being too confident in what you thought you deserved.

You didn’t think too much about the way the woman named Eunji, who happily sat you on her chair with a nervous smile and familiar eyes, kept glancing to the back of your head and to the reference picture on your phone.

You didn’t think too much when she engaged you in conversation and something about the way she laughed made you squint your eyes as you rack your brain on why she both looks and sounds familiar, nor the way your hair kept getting into your eyes as she blowdried you and how she made no move in moving it the last minute.

It’s a little bit funny that the one time you didn’t think too much is the exact moment when you should have, and the whole vignette stops being funny as soon as you turn your head sideways.

The whole bit goes sideways, just like your haircut, when Yoongi walks towards your hairdresser who’s not earned her actual license yet.

"Here you go, princess," he scoffs, handing her a cup of iced coffee. "Had the time of my life explaining your order to the barista in the drive-thru booth."

Yoongi takes off his sunglasses, ready to rip her a new one and detail how he had never been more embarrassed knowing the difference between the concepts (concepts, not actualities) of white chocolate and white mocha somehow, but he suddenly stills.

He knew there was someone sitting on his sister’s chair, and he wasn’t really bothered lecturing her in front of a stranger.

Except you’re not a stranger — you’re you, sat on Eunji’s chair, and you’ve physically never looked this unrecognizable to him.

"Y/N?" Yoongi mutters, unwilling to even wait for your acknowledgement before he snaps his heads towards his sister. “Why's she in your chair?"

"Being supportive," you answer clippedly, only looking at Yoongi’s reflection in the mirror instead of the very real, and very solid him beside you so you wouldn’t have to turn your head and see your haircut in a whole new sense. "Also saving my allowance and I needed to get a trim, so I-I figured... why not go to Eunji?"

Yoongi doesn’t want to beat a horse when it’s down.

He really, really doesn’t want to laugh at you, but with the way you’re blinking at him like you’re held at gunpoint (except the gun is his sister’s shears), he can’t help but put a hand over his mouth.

He’s not laughing, but he is smiling. Yoongi’s thoroughly amused and deeply pitiful for you all at the same time, and he doesn’t know how his smile figures into the scheme of your haircut just yet.

"I could think of a few reasons."

"What do you think?" Eunji cuts in, asking with a nerve-wracking grin on her face with her hands clasped together, the watery gaze she has set on you tugging at your heartstrings in a much different way than when she had tugged at your ends.

"I love it," you answer breathlessly, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as you try to ignore how much length has been cut off and how the layers she gave you are more of an emotional, haircut-related crashout kind. “Oh my god, I love it so, so, so bad."

Eunji breathes a deep sigh of relief at that, her shoulder sagging before she picks herself up and gives you a hug from behind, dashing off to get her camera from her locker instead of her supervisor.

You love the Min family.

You love their warmth and their constant presence, no matter how incidental or fixed.

You’re trying to love the existing skills of their third-born, however, but you can’t tell if your love is that unconditional for a family that’s always treated you like their own.

"Do you need a hat?" Yoongi asks, his upper lip tucked in between his teeth as he continues to stand behind you. "You look like you need a hat."

"N-no. I really, really..." you hesitate, your exhale far too slow for someone who’s genuine, but far too stable for someone who’s pretending to keep it together. "...love the change."

Yoongi gets a full-body shudder.

"I don't," he quips. "I don't think anyone but Eunji would love it."

"Yoongi.”

It’s simple. 

It’s just a simple utterance of his name and yet Yoongi stops cold in his tracks. He reels back the emotion that’s clear on his face, and he lets go of the money he has crumpled in his fists inside his pockets for you to get another haircut at a salon you actually want to go to, because he doesn’t want you to mistake his genuine pity for you as patronization.

You’re on the verge of crying, but Yoongi doesn't wipe your tears. Instead, he just hovers; he’s still there, whether you like it or not, and he could only hope that his striking resemblance to his sister doesn’t further set you off.

"You need a hat," he quietly murmurs, removing his cap from his head and putting it on yours seamlessly. "You don't have to give it back.”

Yoongi leaves it at that, watching you walk out with gas as soon as Eunji finishes taking photos of your hair, before turning his attention to his sister. Her coffee order isn’t the biggest issue they have for the day, instead, it’s her shitty hairdressing skills and how you’re far too kind.

It’s close to midnight, right after you reschedule your ear seeding appointment with Jin for another day because you couldn’t bear seeing anyone with your fuckass haircut (he unfortunately doesn’t know any pressure points that would make your hair grow back longer, and he did research on that after being suspiciously silent when you sent him a picture of your hair), when Yoongi texts you.

He doesn’t talk about The Incident. He doesn’t apologize and go on a rant about how he could’ve reacted better awhile ago.

He just sends a picture of his cat sleeping snugly in a Dutch oven that he got from a blind box and drove to another city for.

sometimes miso throws up orange fur she is white btw

You reply not a minute later before locking your phone.

good night miso

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s your best friend’s best friend other than you.

You’re not one to gatekeep. In fact, you’re the number one hater for every creator who washes up in your feed and suggests for you to go manually type up and search a link or press another button to know the follow-up to the already lengthy, chatty video you already watched.

You know you’re not privy to most things; you’re not even privy to anything at all.

It’s not a conundrum with a tight space for it to be debated upon; it’s just the truth. 

The very idea of everyone in the world being connected to each other within six degrees of separation was shaky in itself. If you were asked to, you can’t exactly place the most far-fetched celebrity in the media and trace back the six or less people that would serve as the bridge for you to be acquainted to them. 

You believe, both in a pipe dream and the innate hope you harbor, that you can be connected to said celebrity or anyone just as significant (maybe even notorious), yet it’s the semantics of trying to pinpoint your exact link that you can’t be bothered to do so in your free time. You’re in no rush to discern how many degrees separated you are from the mayor of the city, and you’re not jumping at the opportunity to know how many handshakes away you are from the executive producer of your favorite show.

You believe in fortuity. You believe in the hope that contingency promises and how ridiculous your current chances could be. You believe in select customs when they serve you and you put your hands together to ward off what don’t. You take what resonates with you, even if your belief in tomorrow comes from a long line of whatever came before you that you don’t fully believe in or if it spawns from the clench of your chest that you get when you see something scribbled in a brick wall and you decide that it’ll forever echo in your mind.

You’re not privy to the general admiration you have for Yoongi, nor are you privy to all the connections you have with him.

You believe in fortuity and you believe in Yoongi, but the two aren’t always synonymous.

"Yoongi?" you ask, the slip of his name from your mouth appearing out of habit rather than actual disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

He looks like he belongs here. He belongs here as much as you do and as much as you’ve never questioned the specifics, he looks you up and down with a discreetness that doesn’t belong in a party as big as this.

Yoongi makes Jimin’s party feel small to you. He zeroes in on you with a gaze that you can’t begin to dissect because a grunt slips past his lips before you could even explain what you were doing in the same space as him, again.

"What are you doing here?" he purses his lips, exhaling sharply. "Y/N, it's great to see a familiar face and all, but please don't stand so close to me," Yoongi grunts through his teeth as if your proximity to him physically pierces through his clothes and sears his skin. "I'm seeing this new girl and she gets a little bit-..."

"Hey."

Before you could even try to recover from the recoil of stepping away from Yoongi immediately so he could entertain her, before you could even try to nurse the harshness of his words and his gaze that penetrated your belief in him — Yoongi gives you a further light nudge in panic before backtracking, his arm now across your shoulders.

"She's my cousin, baby," Yoongi breathlessly greets, the belated addition of your name never falling to your ears because you choose not to know her; because you’re rendered frozen anyway when you realize that Yoongi introduces you as someone far more personal to him, yet someone even more distant to anyone who could see you. “Say hi, Y/N."

You can’t even be introduced as his friend.

At the back of your mind, you doubt if being introduced as one would even make a difference because the woman before you doesn’t seem the least bit interested nor intimidated at however Yoongi introduces you as.

You weren’t competition to her, nor did it feel like you were viable opposition to practically anyone in Yoongi’s life.

"Hi," you nod curtly, the clench of your jaw doing little to ease the migraine that blooms from the back of your head.

"Pleasure to meet a family member of my boyfriend, finally. He won't take me home for some reason," she jokes, her outstretched hand being taken by yours that’s gone cold, making her raise a brow, yet she takes it in stride anyway.

Anything for Yoongi’s supposed family, it seems.

"What was Yoongi like growing up?"

"Oh. Yeah, we didn't see each other that much growing up," you swallow, the shallowness of your tone making Yoongi’s casual arm around your shoulders falter, the slyness of his gaze on you curving into something unidentifiable. “Every time I see him, I still... learn something new."

Your voice tapers off, and both Yoongi and his girlfriend let you be. She only pushes for a little right after, when Yoongi’s hand is back snug to her waist and her head is pressed to his chest, yet you can’t bring yourself to add to the conversation she so badly wants.

She should know that she has no reason to impress you. She should know that she doesn’t have any reason to be afraid of letting you down, because neither does Yoongi.

Jimin, yours and Yoongi’s best friend, claps. 

“I’m back! Got in this long-ass line and-..." he trails off, looking between you and Yoongi and his girlfriend. “Oh? You've met each other then. Great!"

Her eyes only narrow in confusion for a split second, but she lets it be.

Yoongi lets it go, right after he sends a few glances your way and realizes that Jimin’s talking to you animatedly.

You only let go of it when you get home from the party far too early than anyone could account you for.

The grasp you have on fortuity is barely firm, just barely getting by, so much so that you don’t even look at your phone when it vibrates on your nightstand.

jimin’s asking where you are

The grasp you have on Yoongi is barely solid, only enough to hold onto thread instead of cloth, that you don’t reply to his text when you see it in the morning, nor bring up the very fact that it was Jimin himself who hailed a ride for you.

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s a familiar stranger to you. 

He’s basically a crow to you, and to him, you remain to be the pesky, overeager, and insanely optimistic human who wants to domesticate him.

He’s a highly-intelligent, unforgetting, vindictive creature. He knows patterns when he sees them but never flukes, not because he thinks he’s too good for them, but because it felt impossible.

To you, the world had never felt smaller when Yoongi first sat next to you at the dining table.

To Yoongi, the world had never felt bigger since he’s first crossed paths with you. It wasn’t the dining table for him. It wasn’t every other interaction that came after — it was everything before.

As soon as his eyes lay on you from across the floor of the reception hall, the warmth that spreads across your chest is everything but welcome. It stings and it burns and it leaves marks in its wake because it’s Yoongi and it’s you and there’s no other explanation.

There’s no other plausible, full-bodied explanation for the way Yoongi hates familiarity, other than the fact that it’s from you.

There’s no salve for his lack of need for you either.

“Are you a fucking stalker?” 

“W-what? No!” you stammer, eyebrows drawn together as you try to level with him. “This is pure coincidence. I wasn’t even trying to— all the times before either, I swear! I never intended to bump into you.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, the scoff that leaves his lips only adding to the uncomfortable warmth that burns your fingertips.

“Say that you’re right. That every interaction, every meeting, every discreet instance of you shooting your shot at me, which by the way is not discreet at all, is just pure coincidence— do you think I’m happy about it?”

You want to correct him.

You want to point out every thread between you that’s there yet you never pulled on. You want to write his name on a piece of blank paper and map out with yarn all the degrees you’re separated from him, and yet you don’t. You can’t focus on anything with regards to proving yourself right and him wrong when all you can zero in on is the little amount of self-preservation you have left.

“But you don’t hate me, Yoongi,” you murmur, shaking your head earnestly. “You said it yourself. Y-you said it’s nice to see me and-…”

“I said that in the past but I don’t mean it now! Yes, you’re familiar, and that benefits me when I get put into situations and all I happen to know is you,” he snaps, throwing his head back. “I don’t mean it now. It’s not very nice to see you when everyone, including the girl I actually like, just assumes that we’re together because you kept looking at me!”

“B-but I don’t-…. I-I don’t do so well in new-…” the words die in your throat, the gentle yet firm tug he has on your wrist making you freeze in its inescapable warmth. It should be familiar. Yoongi should be familiar, but he feels everything besides that. “But you’re the only one I know.”

“Here. I’ll introduce you to someone and then you can hang onto him.”

Yoongi wordlessly takes you across the hall, delivering you like you’re some misplaced package that ended up on his porch. He doesn’t even look back at you despite his hand being wrapped around your wrist, whereas all you can do is burn holes at the back of his head with your gaze, ignoring the curious onlooking to your predicament as you swallow the lump in your throat.

“Hey, Jungkook,” Yoongi makes his presence known as soon as he sees the familiar mop of hair within his eyeline, his holler effectively taking said guy’s attention.

“Oh, hey-…”

Yoongi, without sparing a second glance to you, nudges you gently to him.

“This is Y/N. Someone I know. Can you watch over her for a second?”

Jungkook, the guy you’ve known for a total of two seconds, hesitantly receives you with a pat to your arm, letting his hand linger there as the both of you look at the back of Yoongi’s retreating figure.

“…okay?”

Just two seconds ago, Jungkook was in a heated one-on-one with his friend Hoseok if it was ethical for one to let their hypothetical girlfriend’s hypothetical close friend sit in the front seat, if said hypothetical girlfriend was drunk and wanted to lay in the backseat (Jungkook’s on team not let close friend sit shotgun) — now, he’s in a silent one-on-one with you.

It’s silent, of course, until you sniffle.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” Jungkook panickedly asks, fishing out a handkerchief from his pocket. “Do the tears have to do something with how weird Yoongi was two seconds ago?”

“Yeah.”

“I figured,” Jungkook, someone you’ve known for less than five minutes, rubs comforting circles on your back.

You don’t mind.

“I’m sorry. I drank from this awhile ago but I swear I didn’t spit on it or anything,” he frowns, his hand outstretched invitingly enough for you to interpret it as friendly, but distant enough for you to have the chance to be wary. “Or do you hate drinking from a stranger’s water bottle that’s already open?”

“It hasn’t happened before, but I don’t think I’ll hate-hate it,” you mumble through broken sniffles, turning your head briefly, partly to wipe away your tears, but mostly to not look like a complete idiot. “Also, you’re not a stranger.”

“Right! I’m Jungkook again, by the way. I don’t think Yoongi even said my name properly because of how fast he was dying to get out of here,” Jungkook laughs, the sincerity flowing out of him being easy. Uncomplicated.

You drift to your default silence, nursing your cries to yourself while trying not to make a sound, but it’s proven difficult when you see two large hands underneath your downturned head: one holding the water bottle, and the other cupped underneath it.

Jungkook thinks your questioning gaze is directed to the way his hands are positioned instead of his default kindness for you, and just maybe everyone else he’s ever encountered.

“Because your hands are shaking.”

He lifts the bottle to your lips, being extra careful in tilting it and having his hand tuck right under your chin to ensure that not a single speck of water would drop to the elegant dress you’re wearing (that you’ve only borrowed, unlike his assumption that you just have the number lying around).

Jungkook sheepishly excuses himself right after you tap him on the forearm to let you know you’ve had your fill, the snort that leaves his lips almost disturbing his methodical pouring of the remaining water to the bottle cap.

“Sorry. I’m a little bit thirsty myself.”

“You could just drink from your own bottle,” you find yourself genuinely laughing the first time into the night, shrugging playfully. “Just a thought.”

“But I don’t want you to think I’m a weirdo for drinking from my bottle deliberately after you drank from it,” Jungkook frowns.

“Of course,” you nod eagerly, gesturing to the live image of a man as structured as him taking tiny little sips from an even tinier bottle cap. “This isn’t any weirder at all.”

“Thank you, pretty girl,” Jungkook bows in the most regal way he could, the grin that graces his face easing the weight that Yoongi had left on your chest. “Not bad for a first impression, hm?”

.

.

.

Yoongi has a habit of mumbling.

Jimin has a habit of eavesdropping, especially when it’s Yoongi mumbling angrily to himself.

“Well that’s fucking weird.”

“What?” Jimin clarifies, furrowing his brows at the annoyance that’s plastered clearly on his friend’s face.

Yoongi doesn’t explain. He just barks at him, arms crossed on his chest as he exhales slowly.

“Go bring Y/N a bottle of water. Don’t tell her it’s from me.”

“A please would be nice,” Jimin mutters. “And no? Give it to her yourself.”

“She’s your best friend.”

“She’s your friend too.”

“She’s not,” Yoongi corrects him, the adjustment falling short because Jimin doesn’t even flinch at the attempt.

It’s pure, utter bullshit. It’s a propaganda that he won’t fall for and it’s a movement that even Yoongi himself isn’t truly invested in.

“She’s not?” Jimin echoes. “The girl who hates driving in the dark and in the rain, who drove you to the airport in spite of all that because my car was in the shop last week, is not your friend?”

Yoongi’s breath hitches at the reminder. 

His heart buckles at the way he didn’t even know you were scared until now, because you only talked to him that day like normal. Like nothing bothered you.

Like warm, as always.

Like you.

( ♡ ) 

Yoongi’s not intentionally seeking punishment.

Frankly speaking, he doesn’t even know exactly what’s he’s asking from you. He doesn’t know if there’s a word for the hollow, all-consuming guilt that’s planted in his chest and grows roots in the pit of his stomach and blooms in the back of his skull.

If Yoongi were to hear his own words repeated back to him, with even just a fraction of the amount of vitriol and misplaced frustration, he would’ve called it then and there. He would’ve hurt himself and ran for the hills right after to recuperate because there’s no amount of distance that would ever stop the echoes of his own tirade.

You weren’t Yoongi, however, and he’s never hated that fact more.

It’s beyond good, maybe even immaculate that you weren’t him, because you were far too better. Far too warm and too good, because even though Yoongi doesn’t seek punishment from his own hands, you wouldn’t deal him the same deck of cards if he were to explicitly ask you.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. You didn’t— fuck — you didn’t deserve that at all and I’ve never been more stupid,” he apologized through the bedroom door of your childhood home. It was his parents’ monthly catch-up with your own and although the invite wasn’t really open for everyone (not one child from either families came with whenever it was this time of the month), Yoongi jumped at the opportunity to come over. You were still warm, although not for him, but not one second passed wherein you took out your anger for him to his parents who didn’t know any better.

“I didn’t mean any of it. I-I was angry, and I was frustrated, and I didn’t know how to juggle everything — but I’m not making excuses! I’m being honest, and the truth was that I was an asshole and I took it out on you,” Yoongi had apologized to you in his dorm when it was time for your session with Jin. You didn’t work your way around him to change your routines; you stayed rooted and despite being overwhelmed with guilt and the need to make himself better, it’s Yoongi who bended backwards by not fleeing at all. You didn’t take it out on Jin, and you didn’t even take it out on the apparently lucky succulent that Yoongi had slipped to your hands during one of your sessions.

“You can push me away. Please. Y-you can cuss me out and everything, and I know I’m asking for forgiveness and you can keep saying no, but I-I’m not doing this to absolve myself, y’know? I just don’t want you to have my… my own words linger in your mind,” Yoongi pleaded to you during your little brother’s return appointment at the dentist. It wasn’t even summer. He’s not even working for his godmother anymore, and yet Yoongi still came into the date he booked your sibling for. You didn’t give him attitude; you didn’t take it out on him in public.

What Yoongi seeks from you is indiscernable. It’s neither penance or punishment. It’s not forgiveness or absolution.

The only absolute thing that Yoongi knows he wants from you, even if it’s within his lowly means and that equates to being beneath you, is something akin to familiarity.

It hurts to see you there but not for him. It aches to see you everywhere and digest that the only times your gaze would land on him is when he makes himself painfully known for your anger and frustration to snag on, anything, really, just to be reminded that you know him enough— even if it’s just barely to get by — to be annoyed over.

You’re everywhere and Yoongi doesn’t complain, even if every single bone in his body is just yearning for the warmth that he took for granted when your shoulders would touch and your knees would brush and your eyes would meet. 

Yoongi’s being burnt alive from your frigid avoidance towards him, even if you’re practically everywhere he goes, but he doesn’t flee.

He’s not avoiding you. He’s taking the hurt and he keeps taking it, because although it’s not punishment enough, it’s close enough to warmth.

It’s close enough to familiarity, even as he pulls desperately at all the threads that bind the two of you close but never together — because it had only been him who had delayed the latter from happening.

“I’m not making excuses. I-I’m being honest and it’s ugly in hindsight, but it’s the truth,” Yoongi whispers, gnawing on his bottom lip as he stands outside of your dorm with no buffer this time; no other connection, no other degree of separation. “I-I wanted to be connected to you in every single way without— w-without anyone else bridging the way for me.”

“That’s stupid,” you mutter.

“I.. know. God, Y/N. You don’t know how much I think of you and all these stupid, fucking ways I want to be your guy for everything,” Yoongi throws his head back, running a hand through his face as he tries to regain his footing. “I-I want to be the guy who fills up your wiper fluid and double checks if you’re being ripped off at the shop because you’re too pretty. It’s stupid, and I know that, but I thought you’d have the tendency to be like your mom a-and be infatuated with wallpapers one day, and I want to be the guy who talks you down from sticking them to the granite your apartment came with-…”

“You sound like an idiot, Yoongi.”

“It’s idiotic. It’s so, so stupid. I want to be your bootleg designer sunglasses guy. I-I want to know how to cut your cuticles and touch up your layers. God, I even have handwritten notes on how I could be the most annoying, present being in your life and-…”

You slap Yoongi very, very lightly.

It’s practically just a tap on his cheek that wouldn’t even be enough to spook a bug off your arm, but it’s you. It’s you and your touch and your warmth and Yoongi literally jolts with electricity, the words stopping right at the tip of his tongue as you stare him down.

“That’s stupid, Yoongi.”

“I know. It’s so stupid,” he shakily affirms, cheeks impossibly warm at your touch. At your proximity, even if your chest is far from touching his own and even if your hand that was on his cheek is now back on your side. “It’s stupid that I kept pulling down the collar of my shirt when I first sent you that picture of Miso, a-and how I’m a grown man but hid behind my literal cat every time I felt that it was getting too real and I-I couldn’t keep up.” 

Yoongi didn’t always believe in connections, and you have no doubt about it.

You have no doubt about Yoongi’s stupidly honest and sincere outpouring either.

“Stupidest thing I know,” you affirm with a whisper, nodding your head tightly.

Yoongi didn’t always believe in fortuity. 

He didn’t believe in yearning and contingency until it dawned into his thick, stubborn skull that what— who — he wanted most is you.

“I want you in all the ways I already know you,” Yoongi relents, not out of surrender, but out of admission. Out of sincere, full-bodied truth. “I don’t want to stop, sweetheart. I don’t wanna stop thinking and being all the ways I could ever be connected to you.”

[marknee]

miss marknee is currently reviewing

[marknee]

[marknee]

……….. ayo

you know what... fan service isn't that bad

[marknee]

tried to download love and deep space after seeing it all over my tiktok…… do not make me do that shit again holy fuck

[marknee]

Hey how do I see all the episodes of the Shakespearen series?

i’ll provide a link here! there are five chapters in total (crazy huh)! if it still doesn’t work let me know and i’ll update the post

you can also find the masterpost by clicking the ‘shakespeare series’ tag below n scrolling

hope this helps!!! enjoy