Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s the only time of year when Yoongi feels like anything he does matters. The trophies for Best Actor and Best Fetish Scene sit in front of him on the table, glinting in the low light. They both came as a surprise. He never thinks he deserves any awards, even if some part of him has come to expect them. 

At this point, though, he’s just biding his time until he can leave. 

RM, a Dom Yoongi has never heard of, is leaving the stage with the Best Newcomer award. With that out of the way, the host returns to announce the fan choice awards, which means the show is almost over.

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Last year, he had taken home the fan award for Favorite Dom. Three consecutive years before that, he’d been awarded Favorite Sub. 

He won’t win this year. He’s not expecting to win. Still, he finishes off his water, wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks, and scoots his chair back from the table. Just in case.

The host slowly breaks the seal on the glossy black envelope. “And the Dom the fans got on their knees for this year,” they start. As they unfold the card, their eyes lock with Yoongi’s—just for a moment. Taehyung, Yoongi’s agent, reaches over and squeezes his knee. 

This is it. The best part. The worst part. Yoongi can’t help but want awards, recognition, but he never knows what to say no matter how much time he spends thinking it over. He dreads this as much as he looks forward to it. 

“Oh.” The host’s smile slips for a moment, then broadens as they turn their attention in the opposite direction. “Our very own Best Newcomer, RM!” 

Yoongi’s legs flex as he starts to stand, only to give up as the words sink in, leaving him to flop back against his chair. His startled “what?” is drowned out under the applause. 

He doesn’t care.

It doesn’t matter. 

It’s just that when RM returns to the stage, his smile is so broad that his eyes are pressed into crescents, deep dimples digging into his cheeks. He starts his speech with this fumbling, “oh wow, I can’t believe it—this is such an honor,” and Yoongi kind of wants to gag. 

“An honor,” he mutters under his breath, leaning in close to Taehyung’s ear. “It’s porn, for fuck’s sake—not the Nobel Peace Prize.” 

It’s loud enough in the convention hall that the sound of Taehyung’s laugh is drowned out, but Yoongi can see the hitch of his shoulders and the way he bites his cheek to hold back a smile. 

“You know,” RM says, “I always told myself if I ended up with a public platform of some kind, I’d use it for good. I can’t say I ever expected that platform to be porn, of all things, but here we are. I just wanted to take a moment to say that everything we have is due to the fact that we live on a planet that sustains life. It’s the only reason we have the luxury to film ourselves fucking each other.”

What the fuck is he talking about? Yoongi shoots a desperate glance at Taehyung, but he’s listening politely, fingers interlaced on his folded knee. 

Jimin is sitting on Yoongi’s left, smiling down at his lap as he types away on his phone. Yoongi wishes he had someone to text to avoid listening to this. His only friends, Taehyung and Jimin, are right here with him. 

“But climate change is killing our planet,” RM goes on, “and it’s up to us to stop it.” 

Nope. That’s enough. 

Yoongi looks around the room helplessly, but everyone else is captivated, nodding in agreement. And it’s not like Yoongi doesn’t agree, per se—it’s just that this is a nuanced conversation and, well, they’re pornstars. This is the adult entertainment awards, not a fucking climate change summit. And this asshole came out of nowhere and thinks he can preach to them? That he has the power to change the world because some horny fans like the look of his dick? 

Ridiculous. 

Yoongi won’t sit here and suffer through the secondhand embarrassment. He shoves himself out of his chair. When Taehyung shoots him a concerned glance, Yoongi mutters, “Gotta piss.” 

He weaves around tables, sidestepping awkwardly between people who’ve chosen to stand and mingle, until, finally, he pushes open one of the doors at the far end of the conference room. It’s only marginally less crowded in the hallway—this is Vegas, after all—but at least RM’s echoing voice and the dull murmur of the crowd is cut off when the door falls closed behind him. 

Now that he’s free, he’s not quite sure where to go. It’s not like he actually has to piss, and there are only a handful of awards left anyway. The afterparty will be held at the bar and casino on the other side of the hotel. That sounds much more appealing than going back to his seat. 

He follows the familiar open walkways until he reaches the bar. Then, whiskey in hand, he plops himself in front of a Jacks or Better machine. It’s a good way to clear his head, the simple strategy and hypnotic button-pressing clearing all thoughts of RM from his mind. He stays there until he feels a pair of arms wrap around him from behind.

“This doesn’t look like the bathroom,” Jimin says. He drops a kiss on Yoongi’s cheek and settles his chin on his shoulder to watch. 

“I’m up three hundred dollars,” is all Yoongi says in reply. 

Jimin snorts and reaches past him to pluck his glass from its perch on the front panel of the machine. He tosses back the rest of the drink. “What are you going to buy for me?” 

“Not a damn thing.” Yoongi swivels on his stool, turning around to rest his hands on Jimin’s hips. “Did you win Favorite Sub?”

Over Jimin’s shoulder, the bar is starting to fill up. A steady stream of people from the awards is trickling into the casino area. 

“Of course I did.” Jimin sways a little, his wrists resting at the back of Yoongi’s neck, the two of them rocking gently with the swivel of the stool. “You missed my speech—you owe me,” he says, pouting. “Three hundred dollars, to be exact.” 

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it was riveting.” Still, he turns back to the machine and cashes out, then passes the printed voucher to Jimin. “Where’s Tae?” 

Jimin shrugs as he pockets the voucher. “Networking or something, I guess. He was mad at you for leaving your trophies—I think he was going to take them back to your room.” 

Yoongi opens his mouth to respond only for the words to die in his throat. Over Jimin’s shoulder, hovering in the threshold between the bar and the casino, is RM. He’s staring right at Yoongi with narrow eyes that brighten when their gazes lock. He has the audacity to raise his free hand—the one not clutching his drink like a lifeline—in a tiny little wave. 

“Jesus fuck,” Yoongi groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “What does he want?” 

“Your autograph maybe?” Jimin says. He turns to face Yoongi again. “I need to find Kookie—want me to bring him back here?” 

Yoongi shakes his head. Jimin’s maybe-boyfriend-maybe-Dom-maybe-both, Jungkook, tends to get himself lost in places like this. Last time, he got distracted following a carpet pattern and ended up in a broom closet. He doesn’t do porn which is probably for the best, because he looks more like a real Dom than Yoongi ever will. 

“It’s fine,” Yoongi says. His eyes drift to RM again, who is looking down at his drink with pursed lips as if it somehow doesn’t meet his standards. What an ass. “I doubt he’ll come over here.” 

“I’ll threaten him on the way out.” Jimin leans down and pecks Yoongi’s lips, leaving behind the taste of cherry lip balm and whiskey. They both know perfectly well that Jimin isn’t going to say anything, but it’s the thought that counts. 

Yoongi has barely turned back to the machine when someone clears their throat behind him. He clenches his teeth—it can’t be RM. It’s not. It was probably just someone passing by.

He deals, his heart skipping when he gets the Ten, Jack, King, and Ace of Hearts. Four to a royal. He taps the hold buttons, his finger sliding back over to the deal button, when a voice pipes up behind him: “Did you win?” 

He’d recognize that obnoxious voice anywhere. He can still hear the words from that stupid speech echoing through his head. Yoongi sighs, slamming his finger down on the deal button. 

Three of Spades. Garbage. 

“No,” Yoongi says tightly. “I didn’t.” 

“But those are good cards, right?” An arm reaches past Yoongi’s shoulder, close but not touching, to point at the high cards. 

“Not good enough.” Yoongi reaches for his glass, only to find it empty. He huffs, turning sharply to face RM. “Can I help you?” 

RM, at least, has the common sense to put some space between them now that they’re facing each other. 

“I just wanted to say hi,” RM says. “I’m Namjoon.” 

Yoongi blinks at him. “Okay.” 

“Um. I go by RM. I won Best Newcomer. Oh, and Fan Favorite Dom.” 

“Cool.” Yoongi turns back to the machine and bets again, trying to ignore the prickle of fury under his skin. Did this asshole really come over here just to rub his wins in Yoongi’s face? 

Yoongi holds a pair of Jacks, just because they’re there. 

“Oh, I get it,” Namjoon says. “Jacks or Better.” 

Yoongi closes his eyes, drawing in a slow breath through his nose. It was a tip Jimin had picked up from a yoga retreat he went to one time, with the idea of working on his flexibility. He was too bored to pursue it any further, but he suddenly had way more advice than he was qualified to give when Yoongi’s emotions started getting the better of him. 

“No. This is not—this isn’t good. This is breaking even. Jesus.” Yoongi slams the deal button again. He turns to tell Namjoon to fuck off, only for the machine to start chiming delightedly behind him. 

“Oh, that has to be good. That’s good, right? You won?” 

Yoongi peeks over his shoulder. A full house—not bad at all. At least this night isn’t a total loss. “Yep,” he says flatly, cashing out. If nothing else, he’s won the perfect excuse to walk away from this conversation. He folds the voucher and tucks it into his pocket, sliding off the stool. 

It’s only then that he notices how annoyingly tall Namjoon is. 

Tall and fucking broad—wide shoulders and a wide chest, big arms and an angular face. No wonder fans like him. He looks dangerous with his silver hair and narrow dragon eyes. His heavy lids block the colorful overhead lights, making his irises look dark and mysterious. 

“Hey, congrats,” Namjoon says, offering Yoongi his hand. Would it be rude if Yoongi didn’t shake his hand? Would word of it somehow make its way back to Taehyung, who would make this into a bigger deal than it needs to be? God, he’d probably find some way to tie it into Yoongi’s image—his brand.

It would be easier to just shake Namjoon’s hand instead of being forced to listen to that. Right when he makes up his mind, Namjoon drags his hand through his hair as if that’s what he was intending to do the whole time. Maybe it was. “It was really nice meeting you, Suga,” Namjoon says, smiling. “Congratulations on your awards, too.” 

“Thanks.” There—now he doesn’t look completely rude. Now that there’s nothing for Namjoon to complain about, Yoongi swoops around him and makes his way out of the casino.

His eyes linger on the bar just for a moment, but he doesn’t want to run the risk of Namjoon sitting down next to him. He glances back into the casino, only to find Namjoon having moved on to talk to someone else.

Networking. Like Taehyung. Like everyone else with a shred of business sense. 

Namjoon’s smile is too wide, his laughs so loud and forced that Yoongi swears he can hear it from this distance. Is it really so hard for everyone else to see through that? Do people really find fake friendliness appealing?

Whatever. 

With or without a stupid fan favorite award, Yoongi’s career is doing just fine. He doesn’t need connections—he is the connection. He’s not going to let himself be an influence for Namjoon to take advantage of, another rung on his way up the ladder. 

He turns on heel and storms out of the bar, making the long way back toward his room. 

The flight from Vegas to Reno a few days later is blessedly short, one that Yoongi has made more times than he can count over the past few years, but he’s still rattled and anxious by the time he gets home. When Yoongi was new and started flying out to Vegas more and more frequently, Taehyung had assured him that it would get easier. 

Yoongi is still waiting for that to happen. 

The closet in his spare bedroom contains his small collection of awards from previous years. He shoves his two newest additions into place before slamming the door closed until next year. 

Not that he can keep this up for much longer. At 31, he’s old for a pornstar. He would have been discarded and replaced already if he weren’t into niche content. Maybe he’ll be replaced by next year anyway, if Namjoon’s popularity continues to grow. 

The thought forms an angry lump in his throat. He grabs his laptop and a bottle of whiskey with hands that are still shaking with flight anxiety, and goes to hide in the bathroom. 

It already feels soothing and comfortable with the steam from the hot water filling the tub. He turns off one set of lights and drops in a bath bomb, the soothing scent of lavender and vanilla filling the room. He sets up his laptop and a crystal glass on a wooden tub tray, then lowers himself into the water to brood. 

It’s tempting to look up Namjoon—RM—and hate-watch some of his videos, but that can wait. He has something else on his mind. 

He pours himself a glass of whiskey and searches for ‘Suga adult entertainment awards’. There are already clips uploaded of his acceptance speeches, which Yoongi avoids. Instead, he focuses on blogs that seem to be commenting on the results. 

‘It shouldn’t come as a surprise,’ the first blog starts, ‘that Suga once again walked away with Best Actor and Best Fetish Scene. We were all expecting it. The biggest shocker of the night for BDSM fans is the winner of an award they voted on themselves: Favorite Dom. Spoiler: It wasn’t Suga.’

Yoongi’s fingers tighten on the glass, and he tosses back the drink in one burning gulp. He scrolls down, skimming through what a surprise it was, how much RM deserved it. 

‘If there’s anything to take away from tonight,’ the post concludes, ‘it’s this: Fans miss submissive Suga. Will he listen to us? That remains to be seen. One thing I can say for sure—you can be the best actor, you can be in the best fetish scene, but none of it matters if the fans aren’t watching.’ 

A dull pain throbs through Yoongi’s lower lip, and he notices all at once that he’s been biting down on it. He releases it, tracing his tongue over the swell of his lip as his heart thrums bitterly in his chest. The sharp tang of blood only adds insult to injury.

He knows he should close this, ignore it, but they have a point. Taehyung had tried to comfort him back in his hotel room, telling him that the fan awards don’t matter much. As if the fans don’t keep his lights on and food on the table. 

There are comments on the post, and he can’t stop himself from looking at them.

He tells himself it’s because he wants to see if anyone disagrees with the post, if anyone is coming to his defense. He’s not entirely sure if that’s the truth.

He scrolls past a few throwaway comments like ‘well said’ and ‘great breakdown, thanks’. There’s also the ever-present porn fare: ‘sexy can’t wait for new vids’ and ‘would probly mary suga if he subed again want to fit my whole head in the asshole yum’. 

At this point in his career, comments like that hardly register. What he sees instead are these: 

‘Ya i miss sub Suga i could never get into him as a dom :(’

‘Suga who?? The only dom I know is RM’

‘I think suga should just sub for rm’ 

That last comment makes Yoongi’s face burn and his blood boil, an anxious rage stinging in his eyes. The thought of going back to subbing for any reason is bad enough. The thought of being forced back into it and then being dominated by his replacement makes his heart shake in his chest. 

He only makes it through a few more articles. The ones that mention him at all are largely the same: Fans still like him, just not as a Dom. RM has somehow captured the porn world’s attention. If he starts snatching up all the good Dom roles, what will that leave for Yoongi?

Nothing. Nothing except bad memories, an empty house he’ll no longer be able to afford, and a closet full of dust-covered trophies that never meant anything at all. 

He stays in the bath until the water goes cold and the whiskey is gone, until he’s tired and shivering and forced to move if only to bury himself in his blankets. 

He’s back in Las Vegas two weeks later, huddled in the front seat of Taehyung’s car and biting at his nails as Taehyung loads his luggage for the week into the trunk. It’s not much. He’s able to keep a second set of necessities at the house that’s shared among all the actors Taehyung represents. Sometimes Yoongi is there alone. Sometimes all eight of them are there at once. Usually, though, it’s just Yoongi and one or two others. 

“Who’s in town this week?” Yoongi asks when Taehyung slips into the driver’s seat. His car is nice—expensive. It always looks brand new even though Taehyung has had it for over a year now. The deep gray leather interior and shiny chrome accents are spotless; the Cadillac logo in the middle of the steering wheel reflects a white-hot flash of sun in Yoongi’s eyes. Taehyung only drives Cadillacs, which Yoongi can’t help but tease him about. They’re a status symbol in Taehyung’s mind, a mark of success, all because his reasonably wealthy grandparents drove one back in the day. 

Yoongi is also pretty sure that Taehyung wears the same brand and color of suits as his grandfather did, because they always look a little old fashioned, but he hasn’t asked. The maroon, paisley tie, though—that smells like mothballs and probably did come out of an old trunk somewhere. 

“Jimin,” Taehyung responds as the engine purrs to life. “And—oh, I don’t think I told you”—he says it in a tone that says he absolutely knows he didn’t tell Yoongi—“but I signed someone new. They’re in this week, too.” 

“Yeah?” Yoongi can’t see Taehyung’s eyes behind his sunglasses, but there’s something about the way he’s presenting this that makes Yoongi uneasy. “Are you going to tell me who it is?” 

“I’m getting to that.” Taehyung pauses, waiting with intense concentration for the opportunity to turn left out of the airport parking lot. The click of the turn signal is quiet and oddly soothing. Yoongi rests his forehead against the window and lets his eyelids relax until the world is a gentle, shaded blur. 

Taehyung makes the turn slow and easy, smooth enough that Yoongi’s head doesn’t even knock against the glass. 

“There were actually a lot of newcomers at the awards,” Taehyung says once they’re on the road. The quiet lilt of his voice is almost enough to push Yoongi over the edge and into actual sleep, but he actually does want to hear this. He blinks his eyes open and makes himself focus. “Some of them didn’t have agents, so it was prime time to scope out some new talent.” 

“Sure,” Yoongi responds lazily, just to show he’s listening. 

“Anyway, do you remember the guy who won Best Newcomer?” 

Yoongi sits up sharply, his heart lurching into his throat. The seat belt locks up and jerks him back against the seat. “Fucking—RM? You didn’t—”

“Okay, there’s no reason to freak out—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Yoongi demands. “No reason to freak out—Jesus. Did you even bother to look him up? Everyone likes him better than me. He’s going to ruin my entire career and you’re just going to make it easier for him.” 

Taehyung’s hand lands on his knee, squeezing gently. “Relax, baby. When have I ever done you wrong?” 

Yoongi’s voice sticks in his throat just for a second, his chest going tight. The road noise suddenly seems loud, oppressive, even the gentle breeze of the A/C filling Yoongi’s ears in a dull roar. 

“Shit.” The warmth of Taehyung’s hand slides away. “Yoongi, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t,” Yoongi manages. It’s painful, the word forced out through the sandpaper in his throat. “It’s fine.” 

“Just… listen, okay?” There’s a gentleness to Taehyung’s tone, like Yoongi is fragile. Broken. “If anything happens to your career, that’s bad for me too, right? I don’t want you to miss out on opportunities any more than you do. So… My thinking is this: If there’s any chance RM could actually be a threat to you, then I want to be the one booking his scenes. You know what I mean? I can make sure everything balances out. Find work for both of you.” 

Yoongi bites at the edge of his nail, hardly registering the sting of pain when a sliver of skin pulls a little too deep. Taehyung’s long fingers wrap around his palm, gently lowering it from his mouth. 

“It’ll be fine. Okay? I promise.” That’s not something Taehyung can realistically promise, but Yoongi can’t make himself reply. “RM is actually really nice. I wouldn’t have signed him if he—oh, come on,” he whines when Yoongi yanks his hand away. Yoongi folds his arms across his chest, his left hand squeezed into a tight fist to stem the bleeding against his palm. 

“He didn’t take anything from you,” Taehyung says. “You know that. The fans voted for him, and it’s normal to be jealous”—Yoongi rolls his eyes, sighing loudly—“but he didn’t do anything wrong. I mean, okay, his speech was… We’ll work on that. But having him contracted with me is the best thing that could have happened for you. Alright? I’ll take care of you.” 

Whatever. 

Yoongi leans his head against the window and glares at the broken white line on the road, blurring until it’s almost solid with the speed of the car. He knows Taehyung is probably right—he’s good at his job. He has an eye for talent and a love of porn that would be strange if he wasn’t so sincere. He also cares about Yoongi. Yoongi was one of the first actors to have signed with Taehyung before either of them had found success. Their careers took off together, and Yoongi likes to think that makes him a little less replaceable than everyone else. 

Still. He is replaceable. He’s not Taehyung’s only actor—not even his only Dom—and Taehyung has to look out for his bottom line. If Yoongi stops earning him money, there would be no reason to keep this going. 

It’s money, Yoongi thinks, that Taehyung likes more than everything else. 

It’s another silent 15 minutes before they arrive at the house, nestled in the back of a cul-de-sac. A stucco wall that matches the house’s warm gray exterior separates it from the interstate, giving it the feeling of privacy. Trees peek over the edge of the wall, almost making it look like there could be a small forest on the other side. The constant roar of traffic, punctuated by the sound of freight trucks and sirens, shatters the illusion. 

Still, Yoongi feels a weight lift off his chest as they pull into the short excuse for a driveway. This almost feels more like home than his cold, empty house in Reno. Everything about it is warm, welcoming, from the orange tile roof to the geometrically arched entryway. At some point over the years, a metal gate with a heavy, obtrusive lock had been installed in the archway. Jimin said it made the place look like a prison but, for Yoongi, it’s comforting. Just another thing that makes it a little easier to breathe. 

Taehyung walks Yoongi to the door. He never stays long. He can sometimes be convinced to stay for dinner, but Yoongi can tell he’s in a hurry by the way he checks his watch as he unlocks the gate. 

“I’ll be here at 6 PM sharp to pick you up tonight,” Taehyung tells him. As if Yoongi doesn’t have his itinerary for the week—with the call times and concepts for each shoot—saved on his phone. “All three of you. I don’t know what RM’s time management is like, but—”

“Shit.” Yoongi drags a hand through his hair, rubbing his palm against his forehead to stave off the impending headache. Tonight’s scene is a threesome—him, Jimin, and, in Taehyung’s words, ‘some other Dom’. RM. He should have fucking known it was RM. 

“—you know Jimin,” Taehyung continues, as if he hadn’t noticed Yoongi’s interjection. He pushes open the front door and places Yoongi’s bag just inside. “Make sure he’s ready, okay? He listens to you. No evening naps or video game marathons.” 

From the moment the door opens, Yoongi can hear voices echoing off the sparsely decorated walls and tile floors. There’s only a single couch in the living room that looks like it was picked up for free off the side of the road, entirely too small for the size of the room—which is small to begin with. The flatscreen they’d all insisted upon for the aforementioned video game marathons is too big for the built-in niche in the wall so they’d placed it on the floor instead, blocking the view of the fireplace, the cord traveling up the wall behind it. Around it is an assortment of consoles and scattered games, controllers tangled up in ways that shouldn’t be possible if they were playing games normally. 

They’re pornstars. There are probably few things they do normally. 

“Be good,” Taehyung tells him. He leaves him behind with a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the ass, shutting the door behind him. 

The next thing he registers is Jimin’s voice echoing in from the kitchen: “Okay, but what’s rice husk fiber?” 

“Oh!” Fucking Namjoon’s voice. “Sorry, I forget most people don’t really know about stuff like this.” 

Nope.

No way.

Yoongi can’t do this.

If he didn’t have a week’s worth of shoots scheduled, he’d walk right back out the door and go home. Just hearing Namjoon’s voice puts him on edge, makes his comfortable little nest feel a little less cozy, a little less safe. He doesn’t even realize he’s still standing in the entryway until Jimin emerges from the kitchen, beelining toward Yoongi as he replies with dismissive ‘uh-huh’s, ‘mhm’s, and ‘oh really?’s in response to Namjoon’s long winded explanation of biodegradable, plant-based plastic. 

Namjoon turns the corner behind him, meandering his way through the dining room like he owns the place. He lingers back as Jimin cups Yoongi’s cheek, leaning in for a kiss.

“Thank god you’re here,” Jimin says. He pulls back, smoothing a wayward tuft of wine-colored hair off Yoongi’s forehead. “Look at you—so cute. I missed you.”

“We just saw each other,” Yoongi reminds him. Two weeks ago, sure, but that’s recent as far as Yoongi is concerned. The only thing that changed was Yoongi’s hair color, but that’s not entirely unusual. He takes his spells of being too depressed to change his hair, then being just hopeful enough to think coloring his hair will improve his life in some way. 

If nothing else, it earns him an affectionate eye roll, Jimin’s fingers combing gently through his hair, and a soft, “Well, I like it.” Not life-changing, but he’ll take it. 

He toes off his shoes and steps out of Jimin’s grasp, picking up his bag. 

“Hi Suga,” Namjoon says, lifting his hand in a tiny wave. It takes Yoongi straight back to the casino, the way Namjoon waved at him—does he think that’s cute or something? He’s too big, too mean-looking, to pull it off. 

Just like last time, Namjoon’s other hand is clutching a drink. The only difference is that, this time, it’s a pale blue, plastic travel mug. Not plastic, Yoongi’s mind supplies unhelpfully, dragging up overheard fragments from Namjoon’s explanation. Rice husk fiber. Biodegradable. Dishwasher safe. 

God. He wants to gag. 

Still, he manages a flat, “Hey,” because he and Namjoon have to fuck Jimin together later and it’s going to be awkward enough as it is. 

“Um.” Namjoon shifts his weight, looking entirely too big next to their tiny couch. He has on a pair of gray sweatpants that are probably oversized judging by the way they hang low on his hips, revealing a tan stripe of skin under his shirt, but they’re still too short for him. “Do you need any help with your luggage?” 

Is he fucking serious?

Yoongi looks down at his duffel bag, held easily in one hand, then back at Namjoon. “I think I can handle it.” 

What is he trying to prove? Is he trying to one-up Yoongi already? They’re not even filming, no one is watching them, and Namjoon is already trying to bait Yoongi into some kind of toxic alpha male battle. He’s not falling for it, and he’s not going to let Namjoon treat him like he’s incapable, weak. 

“Oh. Right.” Namjoon looks down at the TV, staring down at the powerless screen as if he’s watching it anyway. “Of course.” 

The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating, and as much as Yoongi wants to just run up the stairs and escape it, he shouldn’t feel forced to run away from Namjoon in his own home. Well, his second home. His home-away-from-home. 

Even though it’s just as much Namjoon’s now as it is his. 

Fuck.

“Well, this is uncomfortable,” Jimin announces. “I need a fucking enema, so—”

There’s the distraction Yoongi needs. 

“Use the fucking downstairs bathroom this time,” he says, moving toward the stairs with his bag. He pauses a few steps up, blocking the way with one hand on the wall and the other on the railing. 

“My stuff’s in the en-suite,” Jimin tells him, shrugging, as if it can’t be helped. As if Yoongi isn’t fully willing to throw it all down the stairs. 

It’s not like he has an issue with sharing. They all do pretty well, even when the house is full, all things considered. It’s just that last time Yoongi was in for a single night and he didn’t even get to use the soaker tub because Jimin locked himself in the en-suite for hours. 

“You take too long.”

“Excuse me for being thorough,” Jimin says. “And you know the lighting in the downstairs bathroom is shit—how am I supposed to check if I have, like, a stray hair on my asshole—”

“Wow.” Namjoon’s face is pink and he scratches awkwardly at his neck. “So this is… You guys just talk about stuff like this openly, huh?” 

Jimin blinks at him, the same condescending disbelief Yoongi feels reflected on Jimin’s face. “Yes?” Jimin’s eyes lock with Yoongi’s for a second, then flit back to Namjoon. 

“This isn’t fucking Disneyland,” Yoongi tells him. “We have sex. We talk about sex. That’s why we’re here.” He shifts his attention back to Jimin. “Just do the enema down here and we can help each other landscape later.” 

“Fine.” Jimin moves onto the steps, squeezing past Yoongi to go get his supplies. “I like when there’s someone else here for you to be pissed at. It’s so much easier to win fights with you.”

Yoongi’s not sure if Jimin actually won anything, but he supposes tweezing stray hairs alone in bad lighting is enough of a nuisance that Jimin is willing to cut his losses. 

Still, it’s the excuse Yoongi needs to go upstairs and forget about Namjoon—if only for now—so he turns and follows Jimin up without looking back. 

He tosses his duffle bag on one of the beds in the master bedroom, which is his by virtue of seniority. Yoongi also suspects Taehyung had something to do with it in his ongoing quest to stop feeling guilty, but doesn’t like to think about Taehyung talking to the others, making them feel just sorry enough for him to hand over the nicest bedroom without protest. He has no doubt that others take the room when he’s not here, and that’s fine; the stuff he leaves here is generally left undisturbed, and that’s all he cares about. 

Once Jimin exits the en-suite with an armful of tubing, a folded silicone bag tucked under his arm, his free hand fisted around nozzles and bag hooks and lube—staggering and grumbling as if it’s all an impossible inconvenience—Yoongi shuts himself inside before Namjoon can get the idea to take up residence there. 

If anyone is taking up residence, it’s Yoongi—armed with a bath bomb, sheet mask, shower speaker, and his coziest robe. Inconvenient? Maybe. But if Namjoon needs to piss or something, there’s a bush right outside the back door that he’s more than welcome to use. 

Yoongi pushes his hair off his forehead, securing it back with a cat ear headband that once belonged to one of their other housemates until they insisted that it suited Yoongi better. Then, sheet mask in place, candles lit, and low rap music thrumming through the speaker, Yoongi settles into the tub with the intent to stay there forever. 

Without entirely meaning to, he ends up dozing off and on—rousing himself just enough to drain the water a bit when it starts to get chilly and top it off with steaming water from the tap, nudging the chrome handle with his toes.

It must be over an hour later, maybe two, when Jimin lets himself in, clad only in a robe of his own. He must have left his supplies downstairs, because now all he has in his hands are Yoongi’s reading glasses and a pair of tweezers. He holds them out, pleading in his sweetest voice, “Help me.” 

Yoongi sighs, sitting up straighter and gesturing for Jimin to come closer. It’s only then, as he puts on his glasses and inspects Jimin’s immaculately waxed ass, tilting it from side-to-side to catch the sunlight filtering in from the window above the tub, that he wonders if this is the glamorous life Namjoon thought he was signing up for. 

Just for a moment, he entertains the idea of including Namjoon in things like this—all their talks about weird bodily functions and making sure every inch of themselves is visibly perfect before allowing themselves to appear on camera—if only to scare him off. 

Then he wonders why he’s wasting time thinking about Namjoon at all. 

Yoongi sees it the moment it happens. Like flipping a light switch, the sharp transition from pleasure to panic. Jimin’s mouth falls open, his voice cracking as he tries to find his voice, and Yoongi is already pulling out by the time Jimin manages to gasp out, “Red.” 

Yoongi backs off, heart in his throat, searching Jimin’s face—only Jimin won’t quite look at him. His breaths are little more than hitching sobs that he tries to stifle against his own shoulder, his head turned away. 

“Shh… it’s okay,” Yoongi tries, guilt surging through him when Jimin flinches at the sound of his voice. 

Yoongi has worked with Jimin probably more than he has any other sub, fucked him in every position in every conceivable setting—he knows Jimin’s limits. At least, he thought he did. He’s never done anything to make Jimin afraid of him before, and he’s not exactly sure what went wrong. 

Jimin had seemed relaxed, happy, head thrown back in bliss as he relished in the lack of mobility—flat on his back across the bed, ropes securing his ankles to the corners of the headboard, another set of ropes around his wrists going down to the footboard, the pressure of his own arms keeping his thighs spread wide. It was a good scene, the kind that made Yoongi miss being a sub.

Jimin had been so good, holding a chain between his teeth that connected to the set of clamps on his nipples, keeping it taut—and taking his punishment when he forgot to keep his head tilted back and allowed the chain to go slack. And then Yoongi started fucking him, hard and fast with a hand on his throat. The chain slipped out of Jimin’s grasp and Yoongi struck him across the face in reprimand, spitting into his gaping mouth before attempting to shove the chain back in, and, for some reason, that was all it took. 

Yoongi is vaguely aware of the shuffle of movement around them, the cameras shutting off, the small crew waiting around to see if they would be continuing. Yoongi can already tell they won’t be. 

He dampens his lips, forcing himself to speak through the fear that threatens to silence him. “Did I hurt you?” It’s soft, little more than a whisper. Jimin seems to hear it anyway, shaking his head sharply, but it’s not very convincing when Jimin won’t even meet his eyes. 

Yoongi keeps his distance while he waits for Jimin to catch his breath—shallow, staccatoed gasps of panic that morph into slow, shaky whimpers. And all Yoongi can do is sit there, useless, offering reassurances that couldn’t possibly salvage broken trust: “It’s over. You were so good. I’m not going to touch you anymore, you’re safe.” 

And then, when the hysteria seems to have subsided, Yoongi asks, “Will you look at me? Please. I need to know you’re okay.” 

“I’m okay,” Jimin whispers, keeping his head turned away. The eyeliner is doing its job, running down his cheeks in messy black smears that make Yoongi feel sick. 

He did this. One of his most treasured friends—broken, afraid, unable to even look at him. 

But this isn’t about him. Right now, all that matters is Jimin. 

“It’s over,” Yoongi reminds him. “You were so good. Do you want me to untie you?” 

Jimin nods, squeezing his eyes closed. “I’m sorry.” It comes out weak, ragged. “I’m so sorry, I’m—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Yoongi keeps his voice soft, speaking slow and careful to keep from inciting additional panic. From letting his own fear bleed through. He unties Jimin’s ankles first, gently easing his legs down one at a time; he’s all too familiar with the cramps that come from moving out of a position too quickly. “You were so good. So good.” 

Once Jimin’s arms are free, Yoongi pulls the edge of the sheet over his torso to give him some privacy. He keeps one of Jimin’s hands between his own, rubbing feeling back into his tiny fingers. Yoongi is shaking, but he doesn’t think Jimin can feel it—not when he’s shaking so hard himself. 

Some weak, desperate part of Yoongi wants to blame Namjoon, even if they hadn’t even gotten to his part of the scene yet. Maybe knowing he was there, hovering nearby and waiting for his cue, made Jimin uncomfortable. Maybe he’s just as put off by Namjoon as Yoongi is. 

Or maybe Yoongi is just sick. Dangerous. Trying to blame anyone other than himself. 

Somewhere deep down, he knows that’s not true. This is just the way things go. Something that’s fun and pleasurable one day might be triggering the next. It doesn’t mean anyone did anything wrong.

Knowing that doesn’t mean he always believes it, though. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yoongi asks. He lays down Jimin’s right hand and picks up his left to start massaging the life back into that one. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

Jimin shakes his head, sniffing. He wipes his glassy eyes with his newly freed hand. “I don’t know what happened, I just… Suddenly I was back in my own head and—I don’t know. It was too much.”

Yoongi smooths his thumb over Jimin’s knuckles. “That’s okay. That’s normal.” 

“I ruined the scene,” Jimin chokes out. He turns his head in shame, his face crumpling as a sob overtakes him. 

“No, no—hey…” Before he can finish, there’s a gentle nudge against his bare back. He shoots a glare over his shoulder and his stomach drops. 

Fucking Namjoon. 

He’s standing there like an eager puppy, like he can’t wait for the scene to continue, shifting eagerly from foot to foot. It takes all Yoongi has to rein in his temper, because he can’t afford to scream when Namjoon inevitably asks if they’ll be continuing. 

How can he even call himself a Dom if he can’t read the fucking room?

“We’re stopping,” Yoongi says, slow and calm, just to head this off at the pass. “Get lost.” 

“No, I know.” Namjoon holds out his hands. It’s only then that Yoongi notices that he brought over his and Jimin’s robes, a bottle of water tucked in the bend of his elbow. “I didn’t think you’d want to leave his side just yet, so…” 

“Oh.” Yoongi blinks at him. That’s not at all what he expected, but he can’t pretend Namjoon isn’t right. “Thank you.” 

He takes Jimin’s robe and the water and lays them on the bed, then slips into his own robe as best he can without getting up. 

“Do you need anything else?” Namjoon asks, something soft and understanding in his eyes. Yoongi just doesn’t know why Namjoon’s looking at him. 

“No,” Yoongi says slowly. Does Namjoon think he can’t handle this? Is he trying to turn Jimin’s aftercare into some kind of competition to prove he’s the most capable Dom? God, what an ass. He can fuck right off. “Just leave. Get the crew to go, too.” 

Jimin seems to relax more as the room empties out, granting permission when Yoongi asks to touch him, slowly calming down with the mix of gentle touches and even gentler words. After a while, Yoongi is able to get him into his robe, to drink some water, to speak in sentences that aren’t interrupted by tears or gasps for breaths. 

“Have I ever told you you’re my favorite Dom?” Jimin asks quietly, nuzzling his forehead against the side of Yoongi’s neck. He takes a bite from the bar of chocolate Yoongi offered him—he always carries one in the pocket of his robe before going into an intense scene. “In porn, I mean. Other Doms usually leave the aftercare to someone on the crew, but… it’s not the same when it doesn’t come from the person you were playing with.” 

Yoongi frowns. “I know.” He does know—he knows all too well. “Abandoning someone after a scene is the worst thing you can do, I think.” 

Jimin hums in agreement. He finishes off the chocolate and licks absently at his fingers. His eyes are still red, but he looks better. More present. “Thank you,” he says finally. He leans against Yoongi’s side, snuggling in for a half-hug that Yoongi’s all too happy to wrap him up in. He keeps his hold just loose enough so Jimin doesn’t feel trapped, but firm enough that he’ll feel safe. 

It’s a delicate balance. Like most things are with this kind of play. Always walking the line between good pain and bad, finding the sweet spot that makes it fun for everyone. 

He hasn’t been on the receiving end of that kind of care in a long time. 

Taehyung approaches them a short time later, once Yoongi and Jimin had left the bedroom serving as the set and took up residence in an adjoining sitting room with Namjoon. Jimin is still staying close, on the same couch as Yoongi, but he doesn’t seem to need constant touch anymore. At least, not for now. 

It works out, because now Yoongi is the one who can’t quite bring himself to look at Jimin. The last thing he wants to do is ruin subbing for Jimin the way it was ruined for him. He doesn’t want to destroy Jimin’s trust in him, have Jimin think of him as someone dangerous. Someone cruel. 

Even worse is that Yoongi has been able to feel Namjoon’s eyes on him ever since they joined him. He’s in a flowery armchair directly across from Yoongi, only an old, rickety coffee table separating them, and Yoongi wants to hide under it. 

Their first time on set together and Yoongi fucked it up. What must Namjoon think of him now? 

Yoongi doesn’t even know why he cares. He doesn’t care. It’s just that Namjoon has been trying to outdo him from the moment they met, and instead of proving himself a capable Dom the moment he had the chance, Yoongi hurt the sub who trusts him the most. 

“How are you doing?” Taehyung asks Jimin, kneeling down in front of him and looking up into his eyes. 

“I don’t want to try again tonight,” Jimin tells him, voice small and nervous, and it’s like a dagger in Yoongi’s heart. 

Taehyung smooths his hands up and down Jimin’s thighs. “That’s okay. You don’t have to. I already worked it out with the director.” 

Worked it out. 

Yoongi feels the blood drain from his face, his throat going tight. How could Taehyung have worked something out? There’s only the three of them—him, Jimin, and Namjoon—two Doms and a sub. If the sub doesn’t want to participate, then…

‘Ya i miss sub Suga i could never get into him as a dom :(’

‘I think suga should just sub for rm’ 

Yoongi looks up sharply, his eyes locking with Namjoon’s. Namjoon is looking right back at him, soft and curious, head tilted in thought. 

No way.

He can’t. 

He won’t. 

He’d end his contract before he agreed to sub again, he’d give all of this up forever if Taehyung even asked. Taehyung has to know that. He wouldn’t ask him to do this, especially with Namjoon of all people—

“We have some time before Jimin’s flight on Saturday,” Taehyung says. “We’re squeezing in a reshoot that morning. Sound good?” 

“Works for me,” Jimin says, sounding a little more normal. Maybe he’s just relieved that he has almost a full week before he has to work with Yoongi again.

Yoongi lets out a breath, nodding. Of course Taehyung would never push him back into subbing like this. He almost feels bad for even thinking it. 

For now, at least, he can try to forget about this, and maybe everything will be better by Saturday.

In the days that follow, Namjoon starts this annoying… thing. It’s almost like he considers briefly taking care of Jimin together to have been some kind of icebreaker that meant he could start approaching Yoongi whenever he feels like it.

Which turns out to be often for some reason. 

He never seems to want much. He’ll ask how Yoongi’s doing when they pass by each other at the house, they might have a bit of small talk if Yoongi isn’t able to escape right away, before Namjoon wraps it up with, “No, really—how are you doing?” Softer, more serious—eye contact and everything. 

As if Yoongi should know what that means. 

He has to roll through his memories to make sure nothing happened to him, that no one he knows is sick or dying or dead and he forgot somehow, but there’s nothing. Nothing that would warrant this sudden interest in his well-being. 

Even worse is Jimin. 

He’s not doing anything wrong—he never does anything wrong, and that almost makes this harder. He’s too nice, too sweet, too forgiving for someone like Yoongi. He invites Yoongi to play video games with him, clings to his arm and begs Yoongi to cook for him. He leans in for goodnight kisses and hardly seems to notice when Yoongi pulls away. 

They have synchronized smoke breaks just by virtue of existing in each other’s company for so long, and Yoongi’s been trying to hold off, to wait until he knows Jimin is finished smoking before he goes out on his own. The timing is almost impossible to pin down, because it’s like Jimin is waiting for him, which means Yoongi starts skipping his morning and evening cigarettes and that only makes him feel worse, cranky and headachy. 

He’s not mad at Jimin, he’d never be upset with someone for using their safeword, he just… can’t quite look him in the eyes right now. 

All he can hear is Jimin’s voice in his head on a quiet loop—“I don’t want to try again”—and the guilt is tearing him apart from the inside out, his heart in tatters. Subbing for someone is such a good feeling, having enough trust to let go completely, thoughts and worries disappearing, living completely in the moment and letting your body and mind react on instinct alone, knowing someone will be there to catch the pieces and keep you together. It’s special, sacred almost, and so easily ruined. 

Jimin loves subbing, loves it as much as Yoongi once did. What if, in Jimin’s nightmares, he sees Yoongi’s face? 

Shit happens—he knows shit happens—that’s why safewords exist in the first place. But he can’t help but feel a little bit like a monster. 

By the time Saturday rolls around, Yoongi feels worse than ever. He managed to avoid Jimin and Namjoon that morning, which meant missing his shot at making coffee, and Taehyung was extra talkative in the car which filled the awkward silence while also grating on Yoongi’s nerves, but now that they’re on set…

A headache is throbbing behind his eyes, his fingers itching for a cigarette, and the thought of setting up that same scene again—tying Jimin down, hitting him, spitting on him, choking him—has him on edge. There’s a window in the tiny sitting room where he and Namjoon are waiting while Jimin gets into makeup, and Yoongi can’t stop looking at it, the trees swaying in the gentle breeze just outside. He can almost imagine himself climbing right out the window and running away, can almost feel the breeze on his face, the freedom—

“How are you doing?” Namjoon asks, so gently, and Yoongi feels something inside himself snap. 

He rakes his hands through his hair with enough force that a few strands break under the pressure, small stings of pain against his scalp. “Stop asking me that!” 

Namjoon gives him a look—almost pitying, almost as if Yoongi just proved his point. “You know you didn’t do anything wrong, right?” 

God. This better not be going the direction Yoongi thinks it is. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says stiffly. 

“The thing with Jimin. It wasn’t your fault.” 

“I know that.” He should have expected this, should have known Namjoon would find a way to use this against him. Yoongi’s been doing this for years—there’s nothing Namjoon can tell him that he doesn’t already know, and the fact that Namjoon thinks he can is insulting. 

“I know you do,” Namjoon says. “It’s just nice to be reminded sometimes.”

Yoongi shifts his gaze back to the window, biting determinedly at his nails. They’re too short right now, nothing for him to really bite onto, his teeth dragging and pinching painfully against his skin. 

“Hey.” The sound of something heavy sliding against wood catches Yoongi’s attention, and he turns his head to see Namjoon pushing his obnoxious cup across the coffee table toward him. “I didn’t see you in the kitchen this morning,” Namjoon says. 

“What’s this for?” Yoongi asks, eyeing the cup suspiciously. 

“Most people drink it.” Namjoon smiles softly. “Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, you could… you know…” He trails off, his face going red. 

Yoongi’s lips twitch despite himself. “You fuck people for a living. You really can’t make it through a joke about a coffee enema?” 

Namjoon’s face somehow, impossibly, seems to get redder. “Well, you know…” he explains uselessly. “It’s just—yeah. I wanted to share. If you need it, I mean. It’s, like, my third cup of the day, so…”

Yoongi sighs and reaches for the cup. A few years ago, he might have refused simply because he doesn’t like Namjoon, because he doesn’t want to swap spit with him, but—well. Those days are long behind him. 

He also might be a little desperate. Nicotine withdrawal is bad enough; nicotine and caffeine withdrawal is even worse. He’d be stupid to turn down a magic cure that’s being offered to him freely. 

He takes a cautious sip—then has to force himself to swallow. “Fuck. How do you drink this? It tastes like it’s already been inside someone’s ass.” 

Namjoon laughs, deep dimples on full display. He’s always so serious in his videos; Yoongi never even realized he had them. They’d be cute if Namjoon wasn’t such an asshole.

Even if he’s not acting like much of an asshole right now. 

“I know,” Namjoon says, grinning. “Maybe that’s… why I like it?” It’s less of a flop than his first attempt at a joke, but it still comes out sounding more like a hesitant question than anything else. 

Yoongi huffs and takes another sip just to humor him. It really is terrible—Yoongi’s not sure if it’s some weird brand Namjoon likes or if he’s managed to fuck up their community coffee pot—but it works. Maybe it’s his imagination, but the heat rushing down his throat seems to pull some of the headache down with it. 

With the edge of the headache easing off, all Yoongi can think about is how weird this is. Aside from the times Namjoon feels compelled to check on him, they’ve almost fallen into a pattern back at the house. They leave each other alone. Namjoon sits outside and reads while Yoongi makes his morning coffee. Yoongi goes out to smoke and Namjoon goes inside. If Yoongi’s downstairs making dinner, Namjoon is upstairs taking a shower. It’s a natural rhythm they fell into without needing to discuss it, without going out of their way to avoid each other. 

Which is nice, because Yoongi has been going out of his way to avoid Jimin. Intentionally trying to stay out of the way of two people would be too much. 

So this… this isn’t what they do. 

Namjoon checks on him, sure, but he seems to have given up on the cutesy waves and desperate attempts to provoke Yoongi. That doesn’t make them friends, or even people who keep track of each other’s schedules and notice when they miss out on coffee or something. 

“What do you really want?” Yoongi asks. Namjoon blinks at him innocently, as if coming out of a trance—had Namjoon been staring at him? 

“What?” 

“You can’t really expect me to believe that you’ve spent days trying to talk to me just to share ass coffee and tell me the Jimin thing wasn’t my fault.” 

Namjoon shrugs. “Well… Yeah. I mean—I hadn’t planned on the ass coffee, but it seems like it cheered you up a bit anyway.” 

“I wasn’t aware I needed to be cheered up.” He thinks he knows what Namjoon is angling toward, but for his own sanity, he’s going to pretend he doesn’t. It’s not the first time someone’s used a safeword in a scene with him and it won’t be the last—that’s just the way it goes.

If the guilt that niggles at the back of his mind after finishing a scene is a little worse if someone had to use a safeword, that’s his problem. 

“Dom drop is a thing, you know,” Namjoon says, very gently. “It’s one thing to know that a scene is safe and consensual, but sometimes that doesn’t stop your conscience from playing tricks on you. I get it.” 

The sudden burst of anger Yoongi feels is irrational and he knows it, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. His face burns in shame, his free hand clenching into a fist against his thigh. “Is that what this is? Aftercare? Who do you think you are—”

“No one,” Namjoon says. “I barely know you, even though I’d like to. I watch all of your videos—I even have on notifications.” He holds up his phone for emphasis. “I’ve been a fan for a long time, I want to get to know you, but that’s not what this is about. Right now, I’m just a Dom seeing the signs of another Dom dropping, and I want to make sure he’s okay.” 

It takes a moment for Yoongi to sort through Namjoon’s words through the static in his mind, and he latches onto the one thing that makes the most sense. “You watch my videos? All of them?” 

Namjoon smiles, soft and gentle. “Of course I do. I know you’re a Dom in porn now, but… I don’t know if you’re a switch outside of that? It’s, like, my dream to do a scene with you.” 

Yoongi’s skin goes cold. “You want me to sub for you?” Of course Namjoon would want that, wouldn’t he? It’d be the ultimate power move; joining his rival Dom’s agency and overpowering him, making him submit. 

“I mean, if you want. Or if you just like bottoming, or—”

“Well, lucky for you, we have a scene together in about ten minutes. One that doesn’t require me to switch roles.” 

“Right. About that.” Namjoon dampens his lips, looking away from Yoongi’s eyes. “I want to do a scene with you,” he says again. “I really, really want to. But I don’t know if… I don’t think this one is a good idea.” 

Yoongi can feel himself bristling, a chill crawling down his neck and making his hair stand on end. “Tell Taehyung if you’re backing out. I don’t care.” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you,” Namjoon says plainly. “You’re not in the right headspace. You can’t focus on taking care of Jimin if you don’t feel right.” 

There it is. That’s what Namjoon has been after. He can pretend to care about Yoongi’s well-being all he wants, but the truth will always come out eventually. He wants Yoongi to back out, wants to cut him out of today’s scene entirely. And this would just be the first of many, the foothold Namjoon needs to replace him entirely. 

But this is all Yoongi has—he can’t sub or even bottom anymore. If he starts handing roles over to Namjoon, Taehyung—and the companies they work with—will start to think Namjoon is more reliable. A better Dom.

He looks more like a Dominant than Yoongi ever will. Tan, tall, and muscular with those hooded, dangerous eyes that stand out in sharp contrast to his frosty silver hair. Decked out in leather or a sharp suit, as he so often is in his videos, his presence alone is enough to command attention, to strike a delicious fear in people’s hearts. 

Yoongi’s not like that. Yoongi will never be like that. He can’t bulk up no matter how hard he tries, his pasty skin turns scarlet if he spends more than five minutes in the sun, and it will only be a matter of time before Taehyung confronts him about the comments he gets on his videos: “Why isn’t the twink getting railed?” “Hot but weird to see a tiny dom lol,” “Anyone else like Suga better when he was a sub or just me?” 

The good comments outweigh the bad, but it’s the bad ones that stick in Yoongi’s mind like needles, that make him feel unworthy, like the ground could fall out from under him at any moment. And the worst part about it is they’re right, they’re all right—Yoongi doesn’t think he can ever sub again but he feels like an imposter every time he steps into a Dominant role. It makes the guilt hit even harder, the fear of losing everything that much sharper. 

“Suga—Yoongi. Can I touch you?” It’s only then that Yoongi notices he’s gotten off the couch, backed himself toward the corner, that Namjoon’s gotten up and moved closer. He doesn’t know if Namjoon has been talking to him, but the realization that Namjoon is right just makes him feel worse. 

He’s not in the right headspace. He’ll lose control and he’ll hurt Jimin. What if he can’t make himself stop? What if he gets so deep in his own head that he doesn’t hear Jimin’s safeword? What if he breaks Jimin the same way he was broken? 

“Yoongi, look at me.” It’s just firm enough that Yoongi obeys on instinct alone, meeting Namjoon’s eyes—deep, warm brown, surprisingly kind. “How can I help?” 

It’s such a simple question, one that Yoongi has asked subs time and time again, but it’s not one he has an answer to. He shouldn’t even need help—not as a Dom. He wants to be insulted that Namjoon would even ask, but part of him still craves the softness, the care. 

But not from Namjoon. Not when this is all just a ploy to get him to back out of the scene and give Namjoon the spotlight. 

Distantly, he can hear himself breathing faster, shallower, the ache in his head turning into something fuzzy and hollow as static pulses through his veins. Maybe he’ll just die. Maybe he’ll pass out right here, hit his head on the ornate fireplace, and die. It would be better than losing everything, wouldn’t it? 

It would be a way to stop hurting. 

“Okay. Okay. Hang on a sec.” Namjoon pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts typing rapidly, frowning down at the screen. From this angle, Yoongi can make out the shapes of the chat bubbles but not much else.

Is he texting Taehyung and telling him that Yoongi can’t do the scene? Who is he to just decide that on Yoongi’s behalf? He and Taehyung have known each other longer; he would never take Namjoon’s word on something like this without speaking to Yoongi first, right? 

Or maybe this would just confirm what Taehyung already knows: Yoongi was never cut out to be a Dominant. He’s sensitive and fragile, a sub to his very core, but he’s not even cut out for that anymore. 

What if the answer to all of this wasn’t to simply stop subbing? What if he needs to step out of the lifestyle entirely? Get a real job as his family always insisted. God—if they knew what he was doing, if they knew he got off on hurting people for a living, they would talk to him even less than they already do. 

He doesn’t want to do anything else. He doesn’t have the skill to do anything else. Who would hire someone who can’t even manage to lie back and get fucked? 

He’s vaguely aware of a door creaking open, footsteps thudding lightly across the old wood floors. 

“What’s going on?” 

Jimin. 

Of all the people to walk in on this, it had to be Jimin. 

“Hey,” Namjoon says around a relieved sigh. He tucks his phone into his pocket. “Thanks for getting here so fast. Will you talk to him? He’s nonverbal right now, I think, but he’s been dropping hard since your scene.” 

“What?” There’s a soft, aching shock on Jimin’s face, a hurt in his eyes that twists the knife in Yoongi’s heart. 

Namjoon takes a step back as Jimin moves closer. He’s flawless in the warm light, his skin perfected with foundation, lips plump and soft with a silky pink balm, a precisely placed line of eyeliner designed to run when he cries. When Yoongi hits him, hurts him. 

“Oh Yoongi… Why didn’t you tell me?” Jimin’s voice is so soft, so sweet, but as he pulls Yoongi into a gentle hug, all Yoongi can do is stare at Namjoon over his shoulder. The Dom that ruined his life claimed he’d forgotten that Yoongi couldn’t speak sometimes; that, despite the physical signs of distress, he assumed Yoongi was okay because he didn’t use his safeword. 

No one knows unless Yoongi tells them, and even then, very few seem to remember or care unless he’s forced to scribble out a note in the midst of an anxiety attack. 

It took Namjoon mere minutes to figure it out. 

“I’m going to step out now,” Namjoon says, his eyes trained on Yoongi’s. “Is that okay?” 

With Jimin here, Namjoon obviously isn’t leaving to do the scene without him. Whether he’d intended to or not, Namjoon constructed the perfect safety net for Yoongi’s panic, a way for him to step back and give Yoongi some room without causing him to spiral even further.

He doesn’t leave until Yoongi manages a nod, making his way out of the room without another word and carefully closing the door behind him. 

Jimin guides Yoongi back to the couch and gets him to sit down, kneels at his feet and takes his hands. And he’s talking the whole time, telling Yoongi how much he loved their scene, how he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, can’t wait to try it again. And, above all, what a good Dom Yoongi is for listening to him, for stopping when Jimin needed him to. He makes Jimin feel safe, makes it possible for him to relax and have fun and want to try again. 

Slowly, steadily, the knot in Yoongi’s chest begins to unravel. Jimin hasn’t been haunted by their scene, having nightmares about it, fearing Yoongi because of it. Jimin trusts him enough to continue submitting to him even now, gazing up at him from the floor with unbridled affection shining in his eyes. 

He needed this. He needed time with Jimin like this, to see that he’s okay and happy, that the trust between them is still intact, before hopping back into a scene with him. 

And Namjoon realized all of that without Yoongi saying a word. 

They’re half an hour late to set, but Taehyung doesn’t seem surprised. Instead, he just says the director wants to go in a different direction, something a bit more vanilla—just Yoongi and Jimin. 

“Is that okay?” Taehyung asks. “They realized we’ve only ever shot hardcore scenes with you, Yoongi. They think their subscribers might like to see your soft side. RM’s not up to filming today anyway.” 

Bullshit. 

It’s bullshit, but Yoongi’s too relieved to say so. He looks away to hide the way his eyes are burning, and it’s only then that Yoongi realizes that Namjoon isn’t around. Instead of trying to take the scene from Yoongi, he was the one to back out entirely. 

Was he the one to suggest doing something different? Why? 

Namjoon has nothing to gain from this—it’s literally costing him time and money, but he did it anyway. And that… makes Yoongi hate him a little less. 

And maybe, in a way, it makes Yoongi feel kind of safe.

Chapter Text

It’s rare for Yoongi to watch his own videos. 

It’s even rarer for him to watch the old ones—back when he still bottomed, still subbed.

He’s probably never done that, now that he thinks about it. 

It’s just that knowing Namjoon watches them makes him self-conscious, like a high school rival unearthing embarrassing old photos. Except worse, because Namjoon has probably seen the video of Yoongi in a dungeon, begging a Dom to piss in his mouth—“please, Sir, I’m a urinal, Sir, please—”

He shudders, pushing the thought down with a long drink of whiskey. He’s not ashamed of the things he’s filmed. He had fun; he doesn’t regret that at all. 

It’s just.

Namjoon.

Fuck. 

It’d be different if his existence didn’t put Yoongi’s entire career in jeopardy. If Yoongi’s own fucking fans didn’t want Namjoon to dominate him. If Namjoon wasn’t a weird, snobby asshole who somehow managed to make Yoongi feel seen, understood, if only for a moment. 

Yoongi needed the opportunity to reconnect with Jimin and film a scene that was soft and slow and sweet. He needed Jimin’s fingers in his hair, stroking down his neck, kissing firm and deep. He feels better, more himself, and Namjoon hasn’t said a single thing about it.

After the shoot, Taehyung drove Jimin straight to the airport, then took Namjoon and Yoongi back to the house. They still didn’t mention the scene. Namjoon started talking about an art installment he’d seen in the airport when he’d arrived in Vegas, showing Yoongi pictures of it on his phone as if nothing had happened. 

Then, back at the house, they went their separate ways. Yoongi has been hiding in his room for most of the afternoon, posting teaser photos from the shoot on his social media. He stuck around for a moment to reply to comments that piqued his interest—deliberately ignoring the ones that say he was better as a sub. Those aren’t new; he’s been getting them ever since he started Domming, but there’s been a noticeable uptick since the awards. 

Comments like that now make him think of Namjoon, which is why he’s currently watching himself get destroyed by a Dom who had him completely immobilized—a collar around his neck attached to a long, blunt hook in his ass, forcing him to keep his head tilted back—and trying to see it through Namjoon’s eyes. 

He wouldn’t have made it in the porn business this long if he didn’t think he at least looked somewhat decent from most angles, but that doesn’t make the thought of Namjoon seeing him like this any easier. He’s visibly shaking in the video, pale and unimposing, suspended by a harness from the ceiling that just barely allows his toes to touch the ground, making him whine and struggle for traction. 

Does Namjoon even see him as competition? Or does he only look at Yoongi and see him disheveled and bruised, face flushed pink and streaked with tears, drool and come on his chin? 

Yoongi slams his laptop closed, a hollow surge of pain and arousal pulsing through him. He used to have more control. His videos give him tangible proof of that. Knowing what was going to happen in a scene mostly kept his anxiety at bay, while the constant starting and stopping during filming kept him from getting so deep into subspace that he lost himself. 

It worked. It was good. Taehyung always made sure Yoongi got the care he needed afterward, and everything was fine. Yoongi looked forward to work. He liked the directors, the other stars, the Doms he worked with. 

Maybe he was just too comfortable. 

It’s almost like some sort of cosmic joke that Yoongi can’t speak or move in subspace, at the pinnacle of euphoria, as well as when he’s depressed and anxious, the lowest of lows. He had been comfortable enough to completely lose his grasp on reality and it was wonderful.

Up until the moment that it wasn’t. 

And in the sudden panic that followed, he still couldn’t speak, couldn’t communicate that he needed a break. The longer it went, the deeper into his own mind he seemed to go, until the thick, hazy layers of fear and panic seemed like too much to claw his way out of, and everything kind of slipped away. 

The drop that came afterward was the worst he’d ever had. 

He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t eat. Every part of him seemed to hurt, inside and out. He went through the motions as best he could—he’d get out of bed, take his morning shower, go to the kitchen, and burst into tears as he stirred his coffee. Or maybe he’d make it to the grocery store, or the gym, or whatever he needed to do that day before the tears hit, before he had to give up and go home.

Until he couldn’t do anything at all. 

He couldn’t even have sex with his boyfriend—his perfectly nice, vanilla boyfriend who never so much as put him in fuzzy handcuffs. And Yoongi did try, even if he wasn’t exactly up to it, but the anxiety came back every time and left him voiceless and shaking.

It was a cold, sexless month later that his boyfriend had said, “I never wanted to say I told you so, but this is why I said you should have stopped doing porn a long time ago. It ruins people.” 

Yoongi decided he didn’t need a boyfriend after that. 

If he didn’t have Taehyung, he would have decided he didn’t need a job, either.

He texted him at least three times to say he was quitting, and all three times Taehyung said okay, that Yoongi needed to do what was best for himself. All three times, Yoongi regretted it and texted again within the week, saying he was sorry, that he changed his mind, that he needs this job, he loves it, and all he really needs is some time. All three times, Taehyung told him he figured as much, that he hadn’t been replaced, and they could start scheduling shoots for him whenever he was ready. 

When Yoongi finally managed to drag his ruined self back to Las Vegas, it was for a simple blowjob/comeshot scene. He could handle that. Taehyung kept letting him take small parts like that; they didn’t pay as well, but at least it was something. 

He would be okay if he could just find a way to be in control again.

Which is exactly what he told Taehyung when Taehyung had dropped by the house one evening with dinner. Afterward, Taehyung had left a printout for a rope bondage course on the table, and the rest was history. 

Yoongi lifts the glass to his mouth again, the last drop of whiskey a burning tease on his tongue. He pats down the bed covers until he finds the bottle, and he can tell from the moment he picks it up that it’s empty. That doesn’t stop him from opening it anyway, upending it over his mouth to let the last sip trickle down his throat. 

With the memories too loud in his head and no alcohol left to drown them out, Yoongi has no choice but to haul himself out of bed. He sways slightly on his feet and, at this point in his life, he can’t even be sure if it’s because of the alcohol or if he was just sitting on his legs for too long. 

It’d be funny if it wasn’t so depressing. If it wasn’t a reminder that his career will be over soon whether he likes it or not. 

He makes his way down the stairs, only making a small effort to keep quiet. It’s after midnight already, which means Namjoon is probably asleep—probably, because Yoongi can’t be bothered to keep up with anyone’s schedule except for his own—but it’s not like they have anything scheduled for tomorrow aside from their flights. 

It’s not until he turns the corner on the landing that he notices the slight glow coming from downstairs. He wants to blame Namjoon for not turning off the lights before he went to bed, but he supposes it’s his own fault for hiding all afternoon and expecting Namjoon to automatically pick up Jimin’s night owl duties. 

When Jimin and Yoongi are in Vegas at the same time, he strongly suspects that the lights are only out for two to three hours each night anyway, given how late Jimin tends to stay up and how early Yoongi rises.

As Yoongi carefully steps over the discarded pizza box in the middle of the dark living room, he notices the soft, out-of-tune humming coming from the kitchen. It abruptly cuts off as Yoongi turns the corner, and Namjoon greets him with a small smile. 

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Namjoon asks. He looks like he’s on his way to bed—his hair is still neat and combed out of his face, but his skin is shiny from being recently washed, and he’s wearing a thin, white shirt that hangs long over his loose-fitting pajama pants. The pants are patterned with cartoon koalas hugging eucalyptus leaves, and Yoongi can’t decide if that’s cute or annoying. 

Which means it’s probably annoying. 

It makes Yoongi hyperaware of the way his pale, skinny legs are sticking out from his tiny shorts, but—well. It’s nothing Namjoon hasn’t seen before. 

“No,” Yoongi responds. The beep of the microwave makes him jump, and Namjoon reaches past him to pull out a steaming mug of… something. “What the fuck is that supposed to be?” 

A whitish sludge is dripping over the edge of the mug. It's loose and liquidy beneath a thin skin that had formed over the top, the middle of it collapsing in on itself like a sinkhole. It’s speckled with blackish-brown flecks that Yoongi doesn’t want to know the origins of. 

“Um. Midnight snack.” Namjoon holds his hand under the mug before any sludge can drip onto the floor, only to hiss sharply when the hot (and probably toxic) gunk lands in his palm. “I think I microwaved it too long.”

“You think?” Yoongi snaps. He plucks the mug out of Namjoon’s hand before he can do any further damage, dumping the contents down the sink. It’s more liquid than anything, a soupy mix that smells like burned butter and scorched milk. “Was this a mug cake? Did you seriously fuck up a mug cake?” 

Namjoon shrugs. “Mug cookie.” His eyes are trained on the batter that clings to the sides of the drain like he can’t quite believe Yoongi took it away from him. Just to keep Namjoon from doing something stupid like eating it directly out of the sink, Yoongi rinses it down. 

“Mug cookie,” Yoongi repeats, sighing. “Fine.” That explains the black flecks: scorched, mutated chocolate chips. He fills the mug with water to let the crispy edges of the cookie soak. “You know the thing about mug desserts is that they’re supposed to be, like, fool-proof, right?” 

“I can’t exactly cook,” Namjoon admits, smiling sheepishly. “I even fuck up instant noodles, believe it or not.” 

Yoongi looks down at the murky water in the mug, the chunks of bloated batter rising to the surface. “I believe it.” 

An awkward silence falls over them as Yoongi starts sorting through the alcohol cabinet. He can feel Namjoon’s eyes on his back, a quiet tension forming between them like a held breath. Namjoon’s going to say something. Yoongi knows he’s going to say something—about the scene, about Yoongi’s drop, something that makes his intervention much less selfless than it seems—and the suspense is more irritating than it has any right to be. 

“What are you doing up?” Namjoon asks finally, and Yoongi has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. 

He starts pulling down the excessive amount of cocktail mixers someone had decided to store in front of the alcohol. “Isn’t it obvious?” 

“Is everything okay?” 

It’s really not—it never is—but that’s none of Namjoon’s business. Still, Yoongi’s silence must be answer enough, because Namjoon asks, “Do you want to have a mug cookie with me?” 

Yoongi sighs, shoving the mixers back into place. There’s nothing left but cheap wine; he’d rather risk his life with Namjoon’s mug sludge. 

“Fine.” He turns to another cabinet, grabbing a couple of mugs. When Namjoon reaches for them, Yoongi swats his hand away. Just because the risk of death by mug sludge is preferable to cheap wine doesn’t mean Yoongi isn’t going to go down fighting. “If you think I’m going to willingly consume anything you’ve touched, you’re out of your mind.” 

“Oh. Okay.” There’s something odd and soft in Namjoon’s voice, but Yoongi decides to ignore it in favor of distributing ingredients between the two mugs. “So,” Namjoon says, “you're into cooking?” 

“I wouldn’t call this cooking.” Yoongi pushes past him to grab the bag of chocolate chips Namjoon had left out on the counter. Namjoon actually failed to put away most of the ingredients, which is as convenient as it is irritating. Yoongi folds a palmful of them into the batter in Namjoon’s mug. After a hesitation, he adds another. Namjoon seems like the type to want excessive chocolate chips. 

Yoongi pops one into his mouth before closing the bag. “It’s a hobby, though, I guess.” It was a hobby once, even if he doesn’t do it much anymore. It’s easier to order food or do without these days, when the effort of getting up and doing something just for himself seems like too much to bear. 

“Yeah?” Namjoon leans back against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other. “What else are you into?”

Are they really doing this? Talking like they’re not enemies? 

Does Namjoon even know they’re enemies? 

Yoongi almost wants to inform him, but he’s stopped by the memory of Namjoon’s gentle tone and patient understanding. He sighs. “I don’t know, I don’t have many hobbies. I read a lot.” He puts Namjoon’s mug in the microwave. Why does he suddenly seem like the most boring person in the world? He can’t think of a single thing he’s interested in. “Sleeping, I guess. Naps. If that counts.” 

“Of course it does.” He can hear the smile in Namjoon’s voice. “Is that what you’ve been doing all afternoon?” 

“No.” Yoongi keeps his eyes on the microwave, watching the mug slowly rotate in the dim yellow light. “It’s hard to turn my brain off long enough to take a decent nap. It feels like I’m not allowed, even if I have nothing better to do.” That’s a recent development, too, now that he thinks about it. When did he become incapable of doing the things he loved?

“I’m like that, too,” Namjoon says. “I’ve never been much of a nap person. I spend a lot of time writing, getting my thoughts out of my head.” 

“What, like journaling?” 

“Songwriting. Basically the same thing.” 

Some part of Yoongi is curious, if only because of the drawerful of lyrics he has hidden away at home, but the beeping of the microwave cuts him off before he can ask. He pulls out Namjoon’s mug, the warm aroma of chocolate filling the kitchen. It actually looks like a proper mug cookie—soft but solid, moist and delicate. Yoongi still isn’t sure how Namjoon managed to fuck his up so spectacularly. 

He puts the mug on the counter next to Namjoon before microwaving his own. 

“Thank you,” Namjoon says, smiling. “You didn’t have to. Mine was probably edible, even if it didn’t look like it.” 

“Probably.” Yoongi rolls his eyes, accepting one of the forks Namjoon fishes out of the drawer. “Dirt is edible, technically. That doesn’t mean it’s good.” 

Namjoon scoops out a tiny, steaming forkful, blowing on it gently before taking a bite. He lets out a pleased hum, his eyes closing in bliss. “Okay, you’re right. Mine wouldn’t have tasted like this.” He savors another bite before meeting Yoongi’s eyes again, his long fingers curled around the mug handle. “Seriously. Thank you.” 

Yoongi lowers his gaze, shrugging. He distracts himself by pushing a stale crumb across the countertop. “Consider it my thanks,” he says, flicking the crumb away. It hits the wall with a quiet tap. “I really… I didn’t need to do that scene, you were right. And you were very understanding about all of—that. So. Thanks.” 

“Of course.” Namjoon’s voice is gentle, serious. When Yoongi looks up, Namjoon’s gaze is warm and kind. “I told you—I get it. Everyone needs a break sometimes. Even Doms.” 

Yoongi takes the opportunity to turn his back to Namjoon when the microwave goes off, carefully retrieving his mug. The contents are plain and golden—just a regular sugar cookie. He sprinkles some more sugar on top, deliberately avoiding Namjoon’s eyes. 

“No one ever talks about that,” he finds himself saying. “I always dropped as a sub, but that’s, like… expected. Everyone knows about sub drop. Today was just… I thought I wasn’t cut out for this anymore.” 

“I think everyone who gets into this lifestyle has felt that way at some point or another,” Namjoon says. “That there’s something wrong with them, or they’re broken. Either because of what they like or how their mind reacts to it. It can be hard sometimes. Lonely. Especially if you don’t have a community to involve yourself in.”

He says it like he knows Yoongi doesn’t have that. Like a know-it-all asshole. 

Or maybe like someone who knows from experience. 

Yoongi pushes out a sigh, turning to lean against the counter opposite Namjoon. “Yeah. Yeah, this is just… a work thing for me.” 

“Really?” Namjoon asks, his eyebrows shooting up. “It seems to come so naturally to you. I mean, you know what you’re doing—you’re not just acting.” 

Yoongi shrugs, taking a bite of his cookie. “I was acting at first. I used to just bottom. Then I found out I could get more roles if I let someone tie me up, and that didn’t sound like a big deal. If I didn’t mind, like, flogging and electrostim, I’d get even more opportunities. More money. It just escalated, you know? And I ended up liking it. It’s just never transitioned into the real world.” 

“I’m the opposite,” Namjoon says. “I’ve been into BDSM since… I don’t know. Forever. Since I stumbled across it on a porn site in high school, I guess.” 

Yoongi huffs, stabbing at the top layer of his cookie with the prongs of his fork. “Living out your high school dreams?” 

“Well, that wasn’t exactly the plan.” Namjoon pauses to lick a smear of melted chocolate off the side of his hand. “This is silly, but… My best friends are a Dom/sub pair. They’re married, so that kind of changed my perception of what BDSM relationships could be.” 

Yoongi frowns. “You got into porn to find someone to marry? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re in the wrong industry.” 

“No, I know—I mean, that was the point. To not find someone to marry. I mean—let me back up…” Namjoon’s face is pink, an awkward smile pulling at his lips. “Okay, in the real world… it’s kind of hard? I think finding someone I have physical chemistry with, someone I vibe with on an emotional and intellectual level, someone who just so happens to be a sub and wants the same type of relationship dynamic I do… that’s the goal. The dream. But the odds of that are… Like, even finding someone to casually play with feels impossible sometimes, you know?” 

Yoongi nods, even though he doesn’t know. He’s never been around a group of people who do this for themselves instead of the camera. 

“So, first of all, it’s hard to find a sub whose kinks and interests line up with mine,” Namjoon says. “But then, assuming I find one, I want to take some time to get to know them, right? Build up some trust between us. I have to know they’ll communicate with me, that they’re being honest about STI tests, stuff like that. By then, it’s not exactly a hookup anymore. I’ll probably be attached to them, and they’ll probably be tired of me because they weren’t looking for a relationship, so—after all of that—we might not even do a scene together at all.” 

Yoongi hums, thinking it over. “So you’re here for hookups?” 

“That’s what it comes down to, I guess.” Namjoon shrugs, scraping the remainder of his cookie out of the bottom of the mug. “I mean, why not get paid for something I wanted to do anyway? But, on a more practical level, I don’t have to worry about testing because being clean is, like, a requirement to even walk on set. The trust matters a little less because there’s a roomful of witnesses, people to step in and intervene if something goes wrong.”

That’s not exactly true, but Yoongi can’t bring himself to say so. “I guess. I mean—at least you won’t find yourself in a Gerald’s Game position or something.” 

“Right?” Namjoon grins, bright and infectious. “Exactly. God—you get it. I thought the same thing.” 

Yoongi lowers his eyes, smiling to himself as he finishes off his cookie. 

“What about you?” Namjoon asks. “What made you get into porn?” 

Yoongi shrugs. “Basically the same reason. I like sex. Why not get paid for it?” 

It’s not that simple, but the details are none of Namjoon’s business. He doesn’t need to know Yoongi dropped out his senior year of high school to help his immigrant parents make ends meet. He doesn’t need to know that Yoongi forgot about any college aspirations he'd had, telling himself that he was happy working odd jobs. And he could never keep any of those jobs—not for very long. 

If his anxiety didn’t get in the way, his attitude would. Customer-facing jobs either caused him to freeze up or lash out, which would result in him getting fired or walking out on the spot. He bounced from job to job for years, and he was in his mid-twenties when someone, somehow, managed to mistake him for a sex worker. They offered him cash for a blowjob, just like that, like it was nothing. Yoongi went home with money in his pocket, the taste of come lingering on his tongue, his brain screaming at itself all night. He felt weirdly guilty, weirdly dirty—this must be what rock bottom feels like, what it feels like to be so desperate that you have no shame—but…

It was the first time he felt like he’d profited from doing something he was actually good at, something he actually enjoyed. 

It was the first time that sex work seemed like a real way to make money, the first time he wondered how hard it would be to get into it on his own terms. But he felt too vulnerable, too anxious, walking the streets at night, and no one else ever approached him anyway. Whatever aura he’d had around him that one night, whatever signal said he was open for business, was gone, and he had no idea what it was or how to get it back. 

When the thought of getting into porn crossed his mind, it just seemed to make sense. It seemed safer—maybe even glamorous. He could get hurt on the street, assaulted maybe, but nothing like that could ever happen in the safety of a studio with witnesses and cameras.

It was still embarrassing to think he’d been so wrong about that. 

But Namjoon doesn’t need to know any of it. 

The easiest explanation, the one Yoongi tells everyone, is this: He liked sex, but sometimes he didn’t want to take the time to get to know someone, and he was just a little bit too awkward for hookups. He also liked porn—one day, his brain connected the dots, and he never looked back. It was a way to get what he wanted and pad out his savings while doing it. 

It’s not a lie, even if it’s not the whole truth.

“So this is, like, your full-time job, right?” Namjoon asks. 

“It’s my only job, yeah.” Yoongi turns his back on Namjoon to rinse his mug out. “Full time? Not even close.” 

“It’s really cool that you’re successful enough to use this as your sole income. That must be nice.” 

Yoongi’s shoulders tense, his jaw clenching. He turns the water off and opens up the dishwasher, only to be hit with a hot burst of steam. For fuck’s sake. 

“Is that what you’re after?” Yoongi asks. If it comes out a little more harshly than he intended, it’s only because Jimin apparently decided to run the dishwasher and leave him with the clean-up. “It’s not fucking easy, you know. It’s a lot of work.”

It’s a lot of work, a lot of roles, and there are only so many good, legitimate ones available. No matter what Taehyung says, no matter how nice Namjoon pretends to be, this will impact Yoongi’s career. It has to—there’s no way around it. 

“No, not at all,” Namjoon says as Yoongi yanks out the top rack of the dishwasher. “I’m actually—is that a dildo?” 

“Of course it is.” Yoongi starts unloading the odd array of sanitized glass, metal, and colorful silicone dildos and buttplugs, lining them up along the counter. He can’t be bothered to figure out whose is whose, but he knows the big metal plug with the pink gemstone on the base is Jimin’s. He puts that one aside to return to Jimin’s room later. 

Namjoon laughs, small and soft. “I… yeah. Of course it is. I don’t know what I expected.” 

“Dishes, probably.” Yoongi puts his mug onto the rack. He tries to imagine how this must look from an outside perspective, but it’s so normal at this point that he can’t quite relate to Namjoon’s surprise. 

“Probably,” Namjoon echoes, quiet. “Um, so anyway,” he goes on as Yoongi starts loading in the small pile of remaining dishes. He might as well at this point. He also doesn’t quite want to leave Namjoon’s mug sludge in the sink and face Taehyung’s wrath. 

“This is just for fun, I guess,” Namjoon says. “Like a hobby. A paid hobby. I’m actually a jingle writer.” 

Yoongi wrinkles his nose. “Just say you’re a songwriter. Why are you trying to make it cute?” 

“Oh! No, that’s not…” Namjoon’s laugh is loud and genuine, and Yoongi kind of wants to kick him in the nuts. 

“Don’t fucking laugh at me.” It was supposed to sound like a lighthearted tease—despite the way Namjoon’s words kind of stung—but there’s an edge to Yoongi’s tone that he hadn’t intended on slipping out. It’s the part of him that’s still embarrassed for dropping out of school, for being turned away from so many jobs because he didn’t even have a GED. 

Too many people throughout the years have thought of him as low-class, uneducated. Sometimes it was because of his job, and sometimes it was his actual lack of education or his accent. Too many people have assumed he doesn’t understand things, that his opinion doesn’t matter—that he’s not informed enough to even have one.

Namjoon can’t think that. He can’t. He wouldn’t have gotten into porn if he looked down on it, and he couldn’t possibly know about Yoongi’s educational background—or lack thereof. And, now that Yoongi’s listening, Namjoon might have an accent, too… 

“No, no,” Namjoon says quickly. “I’m not. I promise. I just—that’s really cute. Wow.” He moves to stand next to Yoongi at the sink, rinsing out his own mug. “I mean, I’m basically a songwriter, just for commercials. Like, TV commercial jingles, you know?” 

Yoongi steps aside, giving Namjoon room to put his mug into the dishwasher. He barely watches TV, so it takes a moment for him to think of any commercials. “Oh my god. Did you write that fucking toilet paper song? If you wrote the toilet paper song, I’m kicking you out of this house.” 

Namjoon grimaces, smiling. “I did,” he admits, sounding sheepish even though his grin is wide and proud. 

“Oh my god.” 

“But, I mean, it’s good if it got stuck in your head, right? That’s the whole point.” 

“No, I literally hate you. You have no idea. Oh my god.” 

Namjoon laughs. “I get that a lot, actually.” 

“Good,” Yoongi says. He closes the dishwasher and starts it, even if it is a small load. He doesn’t plan on giving himself time to empty it tomorrow anyway, so it can be the problem of the next person who stays here. “You deserve it.” 

“I probably do.” 

There’s a pause just long enough to be awkward. There’s no reason for them to be here now, no reason to hang around and talk. Not that Yoongi is just dying to talk to Namjoon, but he’s not bad company. Even if Yoongi will never admit that out loud. 

“So,” Namjoon starts. He lowers his eyes, scratching at the back of his neck. “I wish our scene had worked out. I really do want to shoot one with you sometime.” 

That’s… weird. Not the way Yoongi expected this conversation to go. But then again, he never really expected himself to talk to Namjoon at all. 

“Don’t you have this backward?” Yoongi asks. “Shouldn’t you be disappointed that you didn’t get to fuck Jimin?” 

Namjoon shrugs, keeping his eyes down. “You know, the only reason I signed with Taehyung was because he said he represented you.” 

Oh. 

Well then. That’s even weirder. 

“You—what? Why?” 

“I told you,” Namjoon says. “I like you. I’m a fan. Even if I never got to do a scene with you, I wanted a chance to get to know you.” 

Yoongi stares at him. Namjoon is finally looking back, and he looks so sincere, the softest smile on his lips, and Yoongi doesn’t get it. He’s imagined doing scenes with people he’s seen in porn, too, but it never went beyond that. He never imagined trying to befriend any of them. 

“Why?” he repeats. It’s all he can really manage, his brain stuck like a broken record. 

“Okay. This is silly, but… You know those little intros at the beginning of a video where, like, they talk to the sub and discuss what’s going to happen in the scene? Just to prove everything is consensual?”

“The one everyone skips,” Yoongi supplies.

“Yeah, but I never skipped it. Not with you anyway.” Namjoon twists his fingers in front of himself like he needs something to do with his hands. “You were funny. I liked your laugh—your smile. The big one. With your gums, you know? I remember the first one I watched all the way through and, um… you were wearing this nice, white shirt. They told you what was going to happen in the scene and it was very… wet.” 

Yoongi snorts, smiling despite himself. 

“And you laughed,” Namjoon goes on. “The big gummy laugh. And you were like, ‘I knew it,’ and made some kind of joke about knowing you were going to get messy every time you were asked to wear white—I dunno. It seemed sincere. And maybe that’s just part of your appeal, why everyone likes you so much. But all those little interviews just felt like I was getting to know you a bit, like you were talking to me specifically. You were funny and real and seemed to genuinely like what you were doing.” 

“I did like it,” Yoongi says quietly, something twisting in his chest. “I liked it a lot.” 

Namjoon looks at him for a moment, head tilted in thought. “Would it be invasive if I asked why you stopped subbing?”

Yoongi can physically feel his walls come back up. He stiffens, a cold chill pulling the smile from his face. “Yes. It would.” 

“Got it,” Namjoon says quickly. “Not asking.” He drags an invisible zipper across his lips, and how is this the same stoic man who’s so intimidating in his videos? He’s so different from his Dom persona that it almost seems like a joke. “So… I don’t know. Sometimes I would watch those even when I wasn’t in the mood for the actual video yet. It was just fun to listen to you talk.” Namjoon pauses, squeezing his eyes closed as he cringes. “Is that creepy? I hope that’s not creepy.” 

“It’s not creepy.” Yoongi can think of several creepy directions this conversation could have gone in—he’s heard most of them before. There’s something oddly refreshing, oddly gut-wrenching, about a fan of his porn not commenting on his body or what they’d like to do to him. Namjoon has seen him from every angle, and the only thing he had to comment on was Yoongi’s smile. “It’s nice. It’s really nice.”

Namjoon smiles at him, warm and kind, and Yoongi can’t stop himself from returning it. He bites his lip, forcing the smile away. 

“I need to go to bed,” he says, even though he doubts he’ll get any sleep at this point. “I have an early flight tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I do, too.” 

Their eyes lock just for a moment, and a gentle spark surges through Yoongi’s chest. He turns his back and starts making his way out of the kitchen before the feeling shows on his face, before the conversation can go any further. 

“Have a good night, Yoongi,” Namjoon softly calls after him. 

Yoongi pauses between the dining room and the living room. The kitchen—and Namjoon—seem extra warm and welcoming now that Yoongi has stepped out of the light. “Yeah. Goodnight, Namjoon.” 

It’s hardly a surprise when Taehyung picks them up at the same time. He’s nothing if not efficient, and booking their flights around the same time saves him a trip. 

Still, Yoongi is caught off guard when Taehyung tells them they’re on the same flight. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Yoongi asks, standing in the drop-off area outside the car with his duffel bag. Taehyung is leaning over the passenger seat, speaking to him through the open window. 

“You’re both going to Reno,” he says, shrugging. “I’m not booking separate flights just because you feel like being rivals.” 

Yoongi huffs, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. It’s not like there’s anything they can do about it now. 

“Whatever,” he says. “See you next time.” 

“Bye, baby,” Taehyung croons, sickeningly sweet, blowing him a kiss. He angles his head to look past Yoongi’s shoulder at Namjoon. “You were great this week. I’ll be in touch.” 

Namjoon waves his weird, tiny wave—maybe that’s just his thing—and Taehyung pulls away. Some part of Yoongi is pissed off, on edge, because Taehyung only complimented Namjoon, only assured Namjoon that he’d be in touch with him, but maybe that’s just the budding flight anxiety talking. At this point, Yoongi knows Taehyung will reach out to him again. He doesn’t need to be told. 

“We’re rivals?” Namjoon asks as they enter the airport, his rolling suitcase clattering behind them. 

“Of course we are,” Yoongi says shortly. He makes his way toward a coffee kiosk, and for some reason, Namjoon follows him. He has his own cup in his hand with his own shitty coffee, so it’s not like he needs to buy anything. 

“Why? Oh god, it’s not because of the award, is it?” 

Yoongi almost wants to deny it just on principle, just to avoid making himself look petty and jealous, but he’s starting to think Namjoon might not be as dumb as he seems. “I mean, statistically speaking, the award means you’re more popular than me. For now, anyway.” 

Namjoon groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s—I’m so sorry, wow. Is that why you don’t like me?” 

“I guess?” Yoongi says, moving up the line. “You also kind of struck me as a self-important asshole, so…” 

Namjoon looks away, drumming his fingers on the side of his cup. “Do I really seem like an asshole?” 

Yoongi sighs. “No.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I mean, you do in your videos—”

“That’s the point, yeah.”

“—but the real you is kind of throwing me off, if I’m being honest.” Yoongi pauses, suddenly feeling a bit too vulnerable, a bit too exposed. “Your cup is obnoxious, though.” 

“My…?” Namjoon looks down at his cup as if he’s never seen it before. “This? But… It’s eco-friendly.”

“Oh, I know.” 

“It’s rice husk fiber. It’s, like, an alternative to single-use plastic.”

“I’m well aware.” 

Namjoon looks between Yoongi, the cup, and then back at Yoongi. “And that’s… bad?” 

“Well… No,” Yoongi admits. “It’s just… I bet you also drive an electric car and drink from metal straws, you know?” 

Namjoon shakes his head. “I couldn’t justify the upfront cost of an electric car. I drive a hybrid.”

“Oh my god.” 

“Look,” Namjoon says, taking a tiny step forward as the line moves, “I do these things because I want to. I know there are legitimate reasons why some people can’t use eco-friendly alternatives. Some people just don’t want to, and that’s… fine, I guess. It’s none of my business, at least. Is that why you think it’s obnoxious? You think I’m judgmental?” 

“I don’t know. I guess.” He won’t admit that Namjoon’s apparent ability to see right through him is obnoxious, too. Yoongi couldn’t quite put his finger on what exactly annoyed him about the cup, but he’s not going to give Namjoon the satisfaction of being right. 

Even though he is. 

Namjoon stays with him until he gets his drink, then trails along beside him as Yoongi goes to stand in line at the check-in counter.

“You don’t have to follow me,” Yoongi says, sipping his coffee. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, watching someone at the front of the line argue about the weight of their luggage. An anxious buzz starts somewhere at the base of his skull and settles heavily in the middle of his chest. 

Traveling is bad enough on its own. Being stuck in a sprawling, overcrowded building; going through security; then being trapped in a hot, loud death tube with no way out, surrounded by strangers who can range from inconsiderate to hostile is just… 

A nightmare. 

“Oh, I wasn’t trying—I mean…” Namjoon shifts. Out of the corner of his eye, Yoongi can see Namjoon turning to look at him. Yoongi doesn’t look back. “We’re on the same flight. I didn’t see a point in going off on my own.”

Yoongi hums, taking another drink as they move up the line. 

“Does it bother you?” Namjoon asks. “I can move to the back of the line or something.”

Yoongi shakes his head before he can think better of it. Going through an airport with someone he’s familiar with is better than doing it alone, even if the person in question is Namjoon. Yoongi can admit, at least to himself, that Namjoon may not be as bad as he thought. 

He’s considerate if nothing else. Perceptive. Blunt about things most people shy away from. Yoongi hardly knows him, but he has no doubt that, if asked, Namjoon would go straight to the back of the line without protest or resentment. 

The knowledge sits in his brain in a way he can’t quite ignore, a nut to crack open, something to think about and mull over for no real reason. 

Over the din—the voices garbled into static, the rolling of luggage wheels, the beeps and dings of kiosks and cellphones—a loud, prerecorded voice reminds passengers to keep their luggage with them at all times and report abandoned bags. Out of habit, Yoongi’s gaze drifts around the room.

Everything looks normal, safe. The way it always does. Even if every sign, every announcement, serves as a reminder that he’s not safe at all. 

The line moves. Yoongi lifts his cup to his mouth with a hand that’s suddenly a little shaky. 

Namjoon’s presence seems a little closer, sturdy and reassuring. 

By the time they approach the front of the line, Yoongi’s cup is empty and his head is full of static. 

“Yoongi.” Namjoon’s voice is soft and careful. “Are you nonverbal right now?”

Yoongi shakes his head, blinking rapidly to reorient himself. He hardly remembers zigzagging through the roped-off line. It takes a moment—he feels like he’s been turned inside out, like his entire body has been tucked into his brain without him noticing—but he pulls himself out of it. 

“No,” he says finally. It feels off, like he hasn’t spoken in days, but it’s nothing abnormal. Nothing he can’t shake off if he just makes an effort to stay present. “Sorry. Did you say something?” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Namjoon’s arm twitches like he’s going to reach out, but he hides his hand in his pocket instead. “I was just asking if you’re okay. You look pale.”

Yoongi huffs. “Don’t I always?” 

“Paler than usual,” Namjoon says gently. “You feeling okay?”

“Not a fan of flying,” Yoongi mutters against the edge of his cup. He tilts it back and lets out a shaky, frustrated breath when nothing comes out. 

Namjoon eases the cup out of his hand, replacing it with his travel mug. “I’m not going to finish it,” he says before Yoongi can ask. “I’ll have to pour it out soon anyway.” 

Yoongi takes a grateful drink, hardly registering how bad it is. It’s still hot, and it’s fucking coffee, which is all Yoongi can ask for. The terribleness, at least, is familiar in its own way. Comforting. Like the last time Namjoon looked out for him. 

Speaking of which…

“How did you know?” Yoongi asks, keeping his voice down. As if it will somehow make this conversation any less humiliating. 

He can feel Namjoon’s eyes on him, looking at him curiously. “Hm?” 

God, he’s going to have to spell this out, isn’t he? It’s almost enough for Yoongi to drop the topic entirely. But he has to know. 

“About…” He gestures at his mouth vaguely. “That I can’t—sometimes I can’t…” It sounds too stupid to say it out loud, too embarrassing. It’s not like Namjoon doesn’t know; he’s addressed Yoongi being nonverbal directly two times now. Still, Yoongi admitting to it himself seems like it will make it real to Namjoon in a way that it hadn’t been before, a way that makes Yoongi seem weird or dramatic or useless. 

“Oh.” Namjoon steps forward as the line moves again. “It’s just something I’ve learned to pick up on over time, I guess,” he says. “A sub I used to play with—my friend, the one that’s married now—he can’t speak in subspace. I did a lot of research on how to accommodate him and keep him safe. It just made me aware, I guess, that it’s something that can happen to people even outside of that context.” 

It makes more sense than Yoongi expected it to. He’s worked with subs that lose some of their ability to communicate—or go nonverbal entirely. It’s hardly uncommon. It’s just that most of the Doms he’s worked with never seemed interested enough to research it outside of their scenes, to ask questions and learn. It certainly never seemed to make them realize that it might happen to people outside of subspace.

By the time they reach the counter, it feels natural for Namjoon to step forward and talk for both of them. Yoongi hardly realizes it’s happening until Namjoon ushers him forward to show his ID. 

It’s easier, after that, to follow Namjoon’s lead. To stay by his side as they start through the security line, depositing his belt, shoes, jewelry, and duffel bag into the bin Namjoon sets on the conveyor belt for him. To follow him to their gate. To trust that Namjoon will join him once Yoongi has picked out a spot to sit and wait—out of the main walkways with a clear view of the boarding line, at the end of a row where he won’t be closed in, where he can turn his head and look out the big windows and feel a little less trapped. 

Namjoon doesn’t talk to him about anything important. Just soft, easy topics that Yoongi tunes in and out of—the weather, planes passing by the windows, the pretty glow of the early morning sun. 

There’s the announcement to be aware of his surroundings again, to report suspicious activity, and Yoongi doesn’t realize he’s perched on the edge of his seat to do just that until Namjoon gently distracts him with a series of pictures he has saved on his phone. 

He’s only disoriented once—a brief flare of panic making him wonder if he’s dreaming, if all of this is fake—when Namjoon asks him, “Do you want hash browns?”

The bottle of Xanax Yoongi had unthinkingly fished out of his bag slips from his hand, rattling loudly as it collides with the floor. And it’s stupid, so fucking stupid—he can feel it like a glitch in his brain, the physical sensation of his wires getting crossed, electricity popping dully beneath his skull. Just for a fraction of a second, he has the thought that he’s been in a restaurant all this time, zoning out in line, upsetting the people behind him while some confused cashier asks him over and over if he wants hash browns with his meal. 

Then Namjoon is pressing the pill bottle back into his hands. “Here, I’m sorry—did I startle you? I was just wondering if you need to take that with food. There’s a place serving breakfast right over there.” He nods across the concourse, but Yoongi can’t focus on whatever Namjoon is seeing through the blur of people. They seem to be passing by at an unnatural speed, leaving ghostly motion trails behind them. 

Yoongi shakes his head and taps the label on the bottle. Take with or without food.

Namjoon’s lips curve into a smile. They’re nice lips, Yoongi notices absently. Full. Probably soft. 

He doesn’t quite realize he’s staring, fixated on his lips, until Namjoon speaks again. “Let me at least get you something to drink—oh.” He cuts himself off when Yoongi pops a pill into his mouth, swallowing it dry. 

He travels alone all the time, but he can’t quite bear the thought of Namjoon walking away from him. Not right now. Not when he feels like Yoongi’s only tether to reality. 

“You good?” Namjoon asks. He sounds a little worried, a little unsure—Yoongi wants to crawl under his chair and die. If he’d known they’d be on the same flight, that they’d be together this whole time, he would have taken his medication back at the house, hidden away where Namjoon couldn’t see him. It’s part of his routine to take it before boarding, the ritual of it almost a comfort in and of itself. 

Namjoon probably thinks he’s crazy.

He is crazy. God. 

Whoever Namjoon thought he saw in Yoongi’s interviews—the funny, confident person that seemed worth befriending—isn’t real. Subs are supposed to be appealing, supposed to seem approachable and relatable. Fans liked the feeling that they could be close to him. That they could have him, fuck him. Very little of those interviews were off-the-cuff. Of course Yoongi knew what type of scene he was walking into. He even had a general idea of the questions he’d be asked because they’re basically the same every time. He had time to think through it, prepare, and if he flubbed they would just shoot it again. 

The real Yoongi is afraid of fucking airplanes. Of sex. He’s afraid of losing and he’s afraid of winning, because losing means failure and winning means attention, and he’s afraid of those, too. He’s afraid of being alone forever, but he’s too afraid to let anyone see the disaster that he really is. 

He wants to go home. 

He wishes he was already there, because it’s impossible to envision. He doesn’t think he’ll die on the plane—he never really thinks that, not really—but he can never see a future beyond it. Can never make plans about what he’ll do when he lands, because it seems like that will never happen. Not necessarily because of disaster or a crash or anything bad; it’s just the end of the book, where the words stop even though the characters are still alive. 

“Come on,” Namjoon says gently, lifting Yoongi’s duffel bag from the floor. “They called our boarding group.” 

Namjoon moves to swing Yoongi’s bag over his shoulder, stopping mid-motion when Yoongi stands and reaches for it. He doesn’t want to look helpless, needy. All he’s done since they arrived at the airport is humiliate himself; he can at least carry his own bag. 

Namjoon hooks the strap over Yoongi’s waiting hand without protest, without discussion, and that’s that. If he thinks Yoongi is incompetent, pathetic, at least he’s nice enough not to say so. 

At least he’s nice. 

The hour-and-a-half flight passes as quickly as it always does, bumpy and loud with the low altitude. Yoongi survives the way he always does: with a pair of noise-canceling earbuds and a blackout eye mask, a death-grip on the armrest that leaves his fingers stiff and sore when they land. 

And then, before he knows it, they’re outside. 

“I’m getting an Uber,” Namjoon tells him, staring down at his phone as he opens the app. “Do you need a ride?” 

Yoongi shakes his head. “My car’s here.” 

It would probably be nice, he thinks, to offer Namjoon a ride, but it’s unlikely that he even lives in Reno. And Yoongi is just… ready to be home. 

“Cool,” Namjoon says distractedly as he schedules his ride. “Good. Okay.” He turns off his phone screen when he’s done, turning his attention back to Yoongi. “Where are you headed? Do you have a long drive?”

“No. Just, like, seven minutes.” 

“Oh wow.” Namjoon’s eyes brighten as he rotates his phone between his fingers. “So you live here in Reno? I’m in Sparks. We’re, like, neighbors.” 

“Oh,” Yoongi says, because what else is he supposed to say? Why is he even standing here? Namjoon may have to wait for his Uber, but Yoongi could have walked straight out the doors and to his car without stopping. 

“We should hang out sometime.” Namjoon unlocks his phone, offering it to Yoongi. “Can I get your number? I mean, only if you want. No pressure. It’s—”

Yoongi takes the phone, his fingers still trembling from the flight as he opens Namjoon’s contacts. It only makes sense at this point, right? Even if they never get together outside of work—and why should they?—he knows Namjoon already has Jimin’s number. 

He saves his contact information and passes the phone back, and his own phone buzzes in his back pocket when Namjoon texts him his own number. 

“I’m gonna go,” Yoongi tells him, tilting his head toward the parking lot. “Thanks for… I’ll see you next time, I guess. If our schedules overlap again.” 

“Yeah.” Namjoon smiles at him. “See you next time.” 

Yoongi should already be walking away, but something makes him hesitate just a second longer. Some part of him is halfway expecting Namjoon to pull him in for a hug or a goodbye kiss like Jimin does—like they all do with each other. But Namjoon keeps his hands to himself, one tucked in his pocket, the other resting on the handle of his suitcase. 

“Drive safely,” Namjoon says, and Yoongi takes that as his cue to leave. 

Throughout all seven minutes of his drive, Yoongi’s mind is a cacophony of thoughts. Every embarrassing moment plays on repeat, every time Namjoon’s steady voice made him feel grounded, every gentle distraction. The way Namjoon makes him feel weirdly safe, the way Namjoon is so kind to him despite openly acknowledging Yoongi’s unconcealed dislike of him. 

Not that Yoongi really dislikes him all that much anymore. He’s mature enough, at least, to admit when he’s wrong about someone. He just… doesn’t really know how he feels. 

And, on top of the embarrassment, on top of everything, is Namjoon’s voice:

It’s, like, my dream to do a scene with you.

I wish our scene had worked out. I really do want to shoot one with you sometime.

Namjoon is hardly the first person to suggest it, and Yoongi usually shoots the offer down before it’s even fully articulated. He’s not even fully sure how Namjoon managed to float the idea past him not just once, but three times, without Yoongi shutting him up for good, but…

But.

He can almost, almost envision it. 

The idea haunts him until he gets in bed that night, where he finally gives in and drags his laptop onto his stomach. He’s never watched Namjoon’s videos for enjoyment. The few times he’s even bothered to look, it’s been a brief sort of hate-watch, and he’s not quite sure if he’ll be able to quiet that part of his brain long enough to enjoy this.

He wants to enjoy this. 

The video he picks sounds generic, cringe—“Hot Dom RM tortures small dick sub until he cries, hardcore anal submission”—but Yoongi has long grown immune to titles like that. What he sees is the thumbnail, the sub securely roped down to a square table, a plug in their ass, and a very recognizable pair of hands doing something to the sub’s dick that’s making him scream. 

Yoongi hesitates with his cursor over the thumbnail. Is he really doing this? Is it weird to do this? He and Namjoon are coworkers now, acquaintances. Does watching his videos for personal enjoyment cross some sort of line? 

Then again, Namjoon openly admitted to watching Yoongi’s videos for enjoyment. And he wants to do a scene together, so this is almost like research. Yoongi would obviously want to enjoy doing a scene with him, right? So he should at least find out if he can enjoy Namjoon’s videos at all. 

The scene between them isn’t going to happen, he knows that deep down. But here, in the darkness of his room, he can pretend. 

It takes him a moment to find the lube in his drawer, but he digs the bottle out and drops it onto the mattress. Picks it up again to make sure it’s not, like, expired or something—it’s been longer than he cares to admit—then puts it back down near his hip. Just in case. 

Then he clicks play. 

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he feels heat stirring in his core. Nothing is even happening yet. Namjoon is slowly moving around the table and making sure the ropes are secure, subtly checking that the sub’s circulation isn’t being cut off, making sure his skin isn’t being pinched in the ropes. He looks so serious, so calm and in control. Now that Yoongi knows Namjoon, he feels like he can see a hint of warmth behind the expression that he once thought was stoic and dangerous. He’s patient, thorough. 

Yoongi squirms against the mattress, spreading his thighs to give himself more room. 

It’s a little too easy to imagine himself in the sub’s place. He knows what the rope would feel like looped around his thighs, hard and unyielding; the same piece of rope encircling his calves, keeping his legs bent, completely immobile, pinned up and open. Another set of ropes encircles his chest, going down and around his pecs in a way that almost gives him tits, putting his nipples on vulnerable display, arms lifted and tied behind his head. 

And then there’s Namjoon, circling him, looking down at him with his dark, hooded eyes. He’s not even wearing anything elaborate—just a black shirt, black pants, and a pair of black boots. It emphasizes the pretty angles of his face, the silver of his hair glinting in the dim light of the dungeon. 

Namjoon is slow and methodical. He pinches and tugs at one nipple until he can slip a clothespin onto it, then does the same on the other side, indifferent to the sub’s whines and futile attempts at struggling. 

Every touch, every tease is deliberate, calculated, even as the sub whines and begs for more. Namjoon lets him get hard and backs off entirely, watching with a smirk as the sub writhes in a desperate search for friction. When his erection finally flags, Namjoon starts all over again.

The second time, Namjoon lets the sub watch as he takes out his own dick, hard and massive, relishing in the relief as he strokes himself, warning the sub in a low, silky tone, “Slaves don’t get to come. We’re going to do this all night long.” 

He comes on the sub’s face with a small sound that goes straight to Yoongi’s dick, aching and throbbing in his underwear. He’s been trying to hold out, only touching himself when Namjoon touches the sub, but he can’t help it anymore. He slides a hand down the front of his dampened underwear, biting back a groan as Namjoon forces the sub to lean his head back and lick him clean. Then Namjoon simply tucks himself away and goes back to work, upping the intensity just a bit. He doesn’t even need elaborate toys—he has the sub squirming and crying as he dribbles wax over his swollen, sensitive nipples, then muffles his cries by fucking an anal plug into his mouth.

God, Yoongi had forgotten about the plug from the thumbnail. He stills his hand, squeezing the base of his dick to stave off his orgasm. Namjoon is slow even with this. He works the plug deeper and deeper into the sub’s mouth with each thrust, making saliva roll down the sides of his cheeks and into his hair—already wet and stringy with sweat and tears. And the whole time, Namjoon is telling him what a good boy he is, what a pretty mouth, all while the sub stares back at him with wide, teary eyes, eager to please. 

Yoongi fumbles for the lube, popping the cap and dribbling a generous amount over his fingers, letting it drip onto his chest. The bottle slips from his hand, spilling against the sheets, but that doesn’t matter now. He shoves his underwear down and adjusts his legs, working his hand between his cheeks just as Namjoon takes the dripping plug from the sub’s mouth and walks to the other end of the table. He holds himself back until Namjoon rubs the rounded tip of the plug against the sub’s hole so he can mimic the motion with his fingers, pleasure sparking up his spine—

And then he freezes. 

The video plays on, but it suddenly seems far away—small and detached on his laptop, the audio tinny and artificial.

God. Fuck. He wants this—he wants this—what’s wrong with him? He tugs at his cock with his free hand, massaging his lubed fingers gently over his rim in slow, slick circles, but he can already tell it’s over. He’s trying too hard, the hand against his dick dry and uncomfortable. He presses a finger in as a last-ditch effort, and it feels like…

Nothing. Like a finger in his ass. Weird and unwelcome, any trace of arousal that would have made it good long lost. 

The moaning and begging from the laptop speakers feel like a mockery, stinging in his chest. Yoongi lets go of his dick and slams the laptop closed, his breath catching in his throat. 

He didn’t even come and he’s a mess. His underwear is damp and sticky; there’s lube on his chest, his fingers, trailing down the cleft of his ass and soaking into the sheet, more spilling freely from the bottle. His vision blurs, his eyes burning and heavy with tears. 

He’s broken. 

He wants to forget all of this and go to sleep, but he can’t even do that. Not unless he wants to sleep on wet sheets with the uncomfortable slide of lube between his legs, a reminder that he failed. That he’s ruined. 

“I think everyone who gets into this lifestyle has felt that way at some point or another,” Namjoon had told him. “That there’s something wrong with them or they’re broken.” 

In Yoongi’s mind, he remembers it more with the tone Namjoon had used in the video, soft and gentle as he told the sub how good he was. 

Yoongi wants to hear that he’s good. That he’s normal. That everything is okay. 

It’s not okay. It will never be okay, but he still wants to hear it. 

He shouldn’t do this—it’s pushing the boundary of their short-lived acquaintanceship, but he needs it. He needs it more than anything.

He wipes his shaking fingers on the sheets and grapples for his phone. 

Yoongi [01:34]
Hi sorry i know it’s late but are you awake

Holding his quivering lip between his teeth, all Yoongi can do is stare at the screen through blurry eyes, waiting for the typing bubble to appear. He can barely control his breathing, harsh and shallow through his nose, collecting in a painful swell in his throat. 

Namjoon [01:36]
Hey Yoongi! I’m a bit of a night owl so no worries haha. Is everything okay? 

Yoongi has to lay his phone down on the mattress and press his face into his pillow as a surge of tears overtakes him. Of course Namjoon is asking if he’s okay—that’s a normal response to someone you’re hardly friends with texting you in the middle of the night—but it breaks something inside Yoongi anyway. 

Yoongi [01:40]
No. Will you talk to me?

Namjoon [01:40]
Of course. Want me to call? 

It hits Yoongi suddenly how stupid this is. How can he ask for what he needs? How can he tell someone to whom he’s been such a jerk that he wants to hear their voice? It’s not like he can tell Namjoon what’s wrong or what he was doing—he couldn’t put himself through that kind of humiliation. Even if he wanted to, his voice is trapped under the lump in his throat. 

Yoongi [01:42] 
I cant talk

Namjoon [01:42]
That’s okay. I can talk and you can listen if you tell me what you need to hear. 

Yoongi hesitates, his thumbs shaking over his phone screen. He needs this so bad, so bad, but he doesn’t know how to get it. Doesn’t even think he deserves it. 

Yoongi [01:45]
I’m sorry this was a bad idea 

Namjoon [01:46]
Hey no don’t say that. I care and I want to help you. I feel like you must really need someone if you were willing to reach out to me and my obnoxious cup :) 

Desperate, Yoongi thinks. Just call it what it is. He’s desperate and Namjoon is the only one who can help. Still—he smiles a little despite himself. 

Namjoon [01:47]
Are you dropping? 

Is he? Maybe. This feels big and ugly and all-consuming, threaded through every pore in his body. If it’s possible to drop from watching porn, then maybe he is. If not, then he doesn’t know how else to describe it anyway. 

Yoongi [01:49]
I think so

Namjoon [01:49]
Dom drop I’m guessing? 

Yoongi bites down a little harder on his lip, worrying it between his teeth. It’s almost more than he wants to admit, but he doesn’t want to be told what a good Dom he is, how in control and strong he is. He wants to feel small and protected. His heart is beating so hard he feels sick as he types out his response. 

Yoongi [01:51]
Sub

It feels like he’s barely pressed Send before his phone starts vibrating in his hand, Namjoon’s name lighting up his screen. He almost can’t bring himself to answer. If it was anyone else, he’d dismiss the call and stop responding for the night. 

But it’s Namjoon. And somehow, impossibly, he always seems to understand. 

Panic flares through Yoongi’s skin as he accepts the call. Unless he can manage to force his voice to work, Namjoon has no way of even knowing he’s there. But Namjoon seems prepared for even that. 

“Hey Yoongi,” he says, so achingly gentle that Yoongi has to squeeze his eyes closed and press a hand over his face to keep himself from falling apart. “I can hear you breathing, it’s okay. You don’t need to say anything.” 

There’s a silence just long enough to make Yoongi painfully aware of the awkward position he’s put Namjoon in, forcing him to comfort someone he barely knows with absolutely no context. 

“God, you sound so sad,” Namjoon says after a moment. He sounds a little unsure, the crack in his composure stinging in Yoongi’s chest. “Okay, so—I don’t know what helps you or what exactly happened, so I’m just going to tell you what I think. And if it’s unhelpful bullshit, you can text me and tell me so, okay?” 

Yoongi can’t help but respond to the smile in Namjoon’s voice, a wobbly one pulling at his own lips. He switches back to his text app.

Yoongi [01:54]
K

“Anyway, I—oh.” There’s a shifting sound as Namjoon switches screens. “Oh, you’re such a good boy, Yoongi. This is good—this is perfect.” 

Yoongi’s breath hitches as the words wash over him. Namjoon’s voice is so soothing, almost meditative. He could probably read Yoongi his grocery list and still manage to calm him down, but this… It was worth the call just for this.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re so good, Yoongi, okay?” Namjoon says, so so gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong. What you’re feeling right now is normal. Your kinks, your interests—you don’t have to be ashamed of any of it. You’re not hurting anyone and you don’t owe anyone an explanation—including yourself. It’s okay if you don’t understand where your desires come from. You don’t have to justify them or psychoanalyze yourself in an attempt to find out what makes you like the things you like. You can drive yourself crazy looking for answers, but you don’t have to. You’re allowed to just… be happy. To feel good.” 

It’s not quite what Yoongi’s after, but Namjoon’s words still wrap around him like a blanket, warm and secure. But this is generic, something that Namjoon probably uses for every sub he plays with. Just for right now, Yoongi wants Namjoon to see him. To talk to him and no one else. 

Still, he can’t bring himself to tell Namjoon everything. But at least he can tell him this: 

Yoongi [02:01]
There’s something wrong with me

“Good boy,” Namjoon coos as the text comes through. There’s a moment of quiet as Namjoon reads it and gathers his thoughts, but it feels a little less awkward, a little more comfortable. 

“So what if there is?” Namjoon says finally. “I’ve been going to counseling for years. Everyone has been through something. And even if they haven’t somehow, their mind might not let them be happy anyway. Or their body might not function quite right. As strange as it sounds, if there’s something wrong with you, you’re normal.” 

Yoongi closes his eyes and tries to focus on Namjoon’s words, tries to let Namjoon’s voice soothe the parts of him that are broken and hurting. And it does help—as much as a faraway voice can. There’s still a hollow feeling in his chest, an ache inside him that makes his fingers tremble. Tears are still gathering in his eyes, spilling out over the bridge of his nose and onto his pillow when they get too heavy.

Everything is just so heavy. Too many memories, too many fears, too many inadequacies. 

“Yoongi.” Namjoon’s voice gently reels Yoongi’s focus back in and grounds him. “Can I give you some instructions?” 

Yoongi swallows hard, looking away from the phone as if to hide from Namjoon even though they can’t see each other. He could force himself to respond if he wanted to, maybe—he can feel the words resting on the back of his tongue, weighing him down. But it’s intimidating, almost painful. 

He types out another text instead. 

Yoongi [02:06]
What kind

“There you go. Good,” Namjoon says, and Yoongi can hear the smile in his voice. “I don’t know, um… I mean, self-care? Self-aftercare? Things I would ordinarily do for a sub. Doing it yourself might not be the same, but maybe it will help if I tell you what to do.” 

The thought of leaving his bed is unappealing at best, absolutely exhausting and impossible at worst. He shifts his weight to get comfortable, only for the cold dampness on his sheets to remind him why he can’t stay. He’s a mess. He can’t make himself sleep in lube-soaked sheets. 

Yoongi [02:08]
Can I say no if I don’t want to do something?

“You can always say no,” Namjoon tells him. “Always. I’ll listen.” 

Yoongi sniffs, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. 

Yoongi [02:09]
Ok 

He hesitates just for a moment, then sends off a few more. 

Yoongi [02:09]
I’m at home
In bed
If that helps 

“Perfect—you’re so good, Yoongi. That helps a lot. What are you wearing? Oh god, I’m sorry, I—” Namjoon’s voice cracks as he stammers through an explanation. “That’s not a sexy question. I just—In case you need to get changed, or…”

He trails off, and it’s only then that Yoongi realizes he can hear himself laughing. It’s soft and wet, almost aching in the tightness of his chest, but he feels a little lighter anyway. 

It doesn’t make the thought of admitting that he’s only wearing precome-dampened briefs around his thighs any easier. 

Yoongi [02:11]
I need to change
Is that enough?

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, soft and fond. “That’s enough.” 

Namjoon’s commands are given in a tender, authoritative tone that’s easy for Yoongi to lose himself in. It starts slow. He asks simple questions for Yoongi to answer through text: whether or not he has any physical injuries, if anything hurts, if he’s eaten anything recently. After that, he finally makes Yoongi move, praising him simply for sitting up, then for moving to the side of the bed and putting his feet on the floor.

For now, he doesn’t have to think for himself. He doesn’t have to worry. All he needs to do is relax and let Namjoon take care of him. 

Slowly, patiently, Namjoon guides Yoongi through picking out clean clothes, then into the kitchen for something to drink. He only scolds him lightly when he finds out Yoongi had grabbed a bottle of whiskey, making him exchange it for a glass of water. Finally, he gets Yoongi into the bathroom with a steaming tub, a bath bomb bubbling and spinning as it dissolves into creamy pinks and blues. 

“Tell me what fragrance it is,” Namjoon prompts softly.

Yoongi plucks the label out of the trash. “Twilight? Um…” He squints at the description. “Lavender and… Tonka?” 

“Hey, there you are,” Namjoon coos. “Sweet boy. Welcome back.” Warmth twists in Yoongi’s chest, rising into his cheeks. The words had come out so easily, so smooth and normal it felt like they’d never been trapped inside him at all. He can keep talking, he thinks, if it will keep Namjoon happy. 

“Lavender,” Namjoon goes on, “that’s perfect. And uh”—there’s a brief sound of shuffling on the other end—“the internet says Tonka is good for, like, creating a sense of calm and promoting relaxation. I’m so proud of you for keeping something like this on hand, Yoongi. It’s just what you need.” 

Yoongi lowers his eyes, glowing from the praise. “I like bath bombs,” he admits quietly. “I always try to keep some.” 

“That’s so good. You’re so smart.” 

As the logical part of Yoongi’s brain comes back online, he becomes aware that there’s nothing special about a collection of bath bombs. But he doesn’t want to think about that now—he doesn’t want to think about anything. No one has taken care of him like this in so long; he didn’t realize how badly he needed it. 

He’s good at playing the part of a Dom, but that’s all he’s doing—playing a part. A part that he’s studied and trained for, maybe, but that doesn’t mean it’s who he is. He spent years studying English; he speaks it every day, he’s good at it, but it doesn’t change the fact that Korean is an intrinsic part of him. He might forget a word here and there if it’s been too long, but it’s who he is. Switching back to his native language is like coming home. 

He didn’t expect returning to subbing—or at least allowing a Dom to take care of him—to feel the same way. Subbing is a language he understands without having to think. Like he’s finally taken off an elaborate costume and slipped back into his pajamas. Like he can finally breathe again. 

“Go ahead and get in,” Namjoon tells him. “Make sure you can reach your water.” 

As Yoongi places his phone and drink on the tub tray and lowers himself into the water, he realizes this is probably the end. Namjoon will make sure he’s settled, then he’ll end the call. 

And he should. Of course he should. It’s probably close to three in the morning; Yoongi can’t expect Namjoon to stay up any longer with him. 

God, he can’t believe he ever thought Namjoon was an asshole. He’s possibly the kindest, most patient person Yoongi has ever met. He doesn’t owe Yoongi a second of his time, but he still called the moment Yoongi needed him. Even after the embarrassment Yoongi put him through at the airport. 

But he doesn’t end the call yet. He makes sure Yoongi is warm enough, gets him to take a drink, and then asks how he’s feeling. It still doesn’t end when the water gets cold, and Namjoon has to gently coax Yoongi out of the tub and into the oversized shirt he’d picked out. 

“Don’t worry about the sheets for tonight,” Namjoon tells him as he guides Yoongi to bed. “It’s just a bit of lube, right? Just put a towel down for now.” 

During their softly murmured conversation in the bath, Yoongi might have undersold the amount of lube he’d spilled. But, somehow, hearing Namjoon brush it off like it’s nothing makes Yoongi feel better about it, too. 

They’re still on the phone when Yoongi gets settled back into bed, and the lulls between their sentences get subtly longer as the fatigue catches up to him. He’s exhausted—mentally, physically, and emotionally. It’s hard to believe he woke up in Vegas that morning, that he and Namjoon parted ways at the airport less than 24 hours ago. 

It’s not until the following morning, when Yoongi wakes up feeling safe and whole, that he realizes he doesn’t remember the call ending. What he remembers is Namjoon’s voice, soft and soothing, as he slowly drifted off. 

Chapter Text

Namjoon sends him a text to check in around noon, stirring Yoongi from a half-hearted doze. He hadn’t quite convinced himself to get out of bed yet, mentally exhausted on top of staying up too late. The message is enough to put a small smile on his face and make him feel a little lighter. He rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes to clear his vision then shoots back a quick reply: “I feel better. Thank you.”

Namjoon texts back immediately: “Good. I’m here if you need me.” After that, he leaves Yoongi alone.

Until the next day, at least, when he checks in again.

Namjoon [13:42]
Hey Yoongi :) Still doing okay?

Yoongi smiles down at his phone before he catches himself, then purses his lips to force it away.

Yoongi [13:43]
Yes :)

He has his laptop open in front of him, displaying a series of stills from his scene with Jimin. Taehyung started doing this within the past year, sending Yoongi clips and pictures from his scenes. He’d told Yoongi it was because he was a big enough star that he deserved some say in the creative process, but Yoongi can’t help but think the real purpose is to give him a false sense of control.

Still, it’s oddly enjoyable to look behind the curtain and see how things work behind the scenes. Even if, right now, that means staring at a folder full of images in which his dick has been obviously photoshopped.

Yoongi [13:44]
I think I’d be better if I didn’t have to explain to Tae that people will notice if my dick has been enlarged in photos

Namjoon [13:45]
Hahaha oh god

Yoongi clicks to the next picture, rolling his eyes as he suppresses a sigh.

Yoongi [13:45]
Apparently it needed to be pinker too

Namjoon [13:46]
Wanna take a break? We could grab lunch or something

Yoongi glances up at the computer screen. It’s not even all that sexy, really, so far removed from the heat of the moment. His dick is unrecognizable, even if Jimin still looks nice.

Judging by the little numbers at the top of the current picture, he’s only on photo 14 out of 50. Maybe he does need a break.

Yoongi [13:48]
Where should I meet you?

Yoongi doesn’t feel anxious until he parks in front of the teashop. He hasn’t seen or even spoken to Namjoon since their call, aside from their handful of text messages. What if their already awkward relationship feels even weirder? What if Namjoon starts asking him questions he’s not prepared to answer?

He was wrong about Namjoon, he can admit that, but a few little moments of warmth and kindness doesn’t suddenly make them friends. He doesn’t know what they are, exactly. He only knows that he doesn’t want to lose what they have.

If someone had told Yoongi a week ago that his enemy, his rival, would be the only person in the world to make him feel safe, he’d think they were fucking with him. But here he is. Willingly meeting up with Namjoon just because he kind of likes being in his presence.

He opens the door to an onslaught of pastel pink. The teashop has pink walls with pink baseboards, pink floral arrangements, and pink padded chairs—accented with soft white tables.

He spots Namjoon at a tiny table near the window, where he’s already waiting with two cups of tea, each accompanied by a delicate ceramic plate and a piece of biscotti.

Yoongi snorts as he slides into his seat. “Isn’t this a little dainty?”

“Yeah, about that…” Either Namjoon’s face is slightly flushed, or it’s just reflecting the pink of the wall. He scratches at the back of his neck. “It’s definitely… frillier than I imagined. But it’s exactly halfway between us, so…”

Fair enough. It didn’t take Yoongi any more than ten minutes to get here, so he can’t complain. Still, he picks at the edge of the paper doily placed under his cup. “Are you sure you’re a Dom?” he teases. “Because everything you do is, like, the opposite of every Dom I’ve ever met.”

It probably doesn’t help that all the Doms Yoongi has met are likely just pretending, and he’s never spent time with them outside of work. But, on set, it’s all stereotypes: stoic men with dark clothes torturing subs in ominous dungeons. In the ways that really matter—being an observant, empathetic protector, nurturing and trustworthy—Yoongi can't imagine a more natural fit for a Dom than Namjoon.

Namjoon’s lips twitch into a half-smile as he lifts his cup to his lips, piercing eyes meeting Yoongi’s over the edge. “I’m sure.”

Just for a moment, he’s the Namjoon Yoongi has seen on screen, calm and in control. The weight of his gaze is enough to make a sudden thrill rush down Yoongi’s spine.

Then tea dribbles down his chin as he seems to completely miss his mouth. Namjoon puts his cup down in a quiet panic as he fumbles for a napkin, and Yoongi is strangely, hopelessly charmed.

Which just makes him more aware of all the ways he’s humiliated himself over the past few days. Namjoon has seen him at his worst more times than he’s comfortable with. His reputation might not be salvageable, but he at least owes Namjoon an explanation for all the shit he’s had to put up with.

“So. Listen.” Yoongi hesitates, taking a sip of tea. “I’m sorry about the other night. And the airport. God—and the whole thing with Jimin.” He lowers his gaze, staring down into the warm brown liquid against the delicate China cup. “You must think I’m—”

“Why don’t I just tell you what I think?” Namjoon balls up the used napkin and puts it aside. He’s quiet just long enough to give Yoongi a chance to respond, and when he doesn’t, Namjoon continues, “I think you’re really strong.”

Yoongi huffs, something bitter and cold twisting in his chest. Strong. Okay. Sure. As if he hasn’t been the weakest, most embarrassing person on the planet recently. He should have seen Namjoon’s claim of being a fan as the red flag it is: He’s never going to tell Yoongi the truth, never going to be someone who can acknowledge his flaws.

Someone who can see his flaws and like him anyway.

“I mean that,” Namjoon says firmly. “You aren’t afraid to reach out for help when you need it, even if it means texting an acquaintance in the middle of the night. You have some kind of—I don’t know—phobia about flying. And it would be perfectly understandable to avoid getting on planes entirely just to keep from putting yourself through that, but you do it anyway. Regularly. You fly back and forth all the time, alone, I guess, because you aren’t going to let fear stop you from doing what you want to do. And that’s something to be proud of, Yoongi, it really is.”

There’s a tightness in Yoongi’s throat, aching like there’s something lodged there. “Fear stops me from doing a lot of things,” he admits, the words coming out tight and small.

“Like what?” Namjoon’s voice is softer now, gentle. Reassuring. They don’t have to be close friends for Yoongi to be able to look into Namjoon's eyes and trust that everything he says will remain between them.

Namjoon notices when he can’t speak. He took care of Yoongi for hours without even knowing what happened. And now that Yoongi has had a taste of being protected, cared for, for the first time in so long… He craves it more than ever.

It hurts more than ever, too, knowing he’ll never experience it again unless something changes. Unless he changes.

Yoongi shrugs, tearing one of the intricate edges of the doily. “I don’t sub anymore.” He says it like it’s nothing, like his whole life wasn’t ruined in the aftermath.

Namjoon looks at him, his gaze flickering between Yoongi’s eyes. And Yoongi feels stripped down, exposed, like Namjoon knows all the things he’s not saying.

“It’s okay to back away from things that make you uncomfortable,” Namjoon says finally.

Yoongi sighs. It’s only because Namjoon didn’t laugh at him for spilling lube on his sheets, only because Namjoon never pushes him, that Yoongi lets himself say, “I never wanted to back away from it. I just… I couldn’t do it anymore.”

That was probably the wrong thing to say. Because now Namjoon will ask him why, and that’s not something Yoongi is prepared to talk about. Not with Namjoon. Not with anyone.

Instead, Namjoon only asks, “Do you miss it?”

Yoongi rips through two more rows of the doily, the thin lines of paper breaking in a way that’s oddly satisfying. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Namjoon glances around the room, then scoots his chair closer. He leans in slightly, too big and awkward over their dainty little table. “Can I make a suggestion?”

If Namjoon suggests just diving in and doing it anyway—saying ‘fuck it’ and taking a sub role, facing it head on the same way he does with flying—Yoongi will probably deck him. Still, Namjoon has been nothing if not pleasantly surprising since the moment they met. Yoongi pushes out a heavy breath and lets the doily drop from his fingers, ruined and ugly. “Sure.”

“Maybe you’ve already thought about this, but… What if you try it again in private first,” Namjoon says. “In a safe environment with someone you trust. Ease back into it, you know? Without the pressure of the cameras and feeling like you have to finish the scene.”

Yoongi bites his lip. He hadn’t thought of that, actually. Maybe he would have if he actually had someone he could trust with this. Someone who also happened to be a Dom, someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who would take care of him, stop if Yoongi needed to, because they know how scared he is.

Someone kind of like Namjoon.

But that doesn’t make any sense. They barely know each other. Not even a full month ago, Yoongi was convinced he hated him. Some part of him still bristles when Namjoon is praised, even if it is misplaced jealousy or his own insecurities driving it.

“Sorry,” Namjoon says, quick and awkward. “It’s not really my place to—”

“No. You’re right.” Yoongi dampens his lips. “I just… I don’t really have anyone like that.”

“Oh.”

The silence that falls over them is heavy, charged with expectation. They’re both thinking the same thing—they have to be—but Yoongi doesn’t think either of them is brave enough to say it. If it’s even a smart thing to say.

“So. Jimin doesn’t…? He only subs?” Namjoon asks.

Yoongi huffs out a laugh. “Jimin. God. No, he’s—he’s never Dommed before. He’s very… Well, you’ve met him. He likes the attention.”

“I can see that,” Namjoon says, smiling softly. “I guess I can’t really picture him as a Dom.”

“It’s like I said.” Yoongi lifts his hand to his mouth, biting at the edge of his thumb. “This is only a work thing for me. I don’t know anyone who does this in the real world.” His eyes lock with Namjoon’s, the ‘except for you’ going unspoken.

He hopes Namjoon will connect the dots.

He’s fucking terrified of what would happen if he does.

Namjoon pushes out a heavy breath. “Yoongi. You already know how I feel about this. You can ask if you want, but I’m not going to push you.”

Right. Because Namjoon wants to do a scene with him. It was on his mind before he even signed the contract.

It really just comes down to whether or not Yoongi wants to do a scene with him, too.

“It might be okay if it’s you,” he admits, just above a whisper. That’s the best he can do. “I think—I mean, I trust you.”

It’s not as hard to admit as Yoongi expected, but maybe that’s because things are different now. Maybe it started at the airport, or maybe even their call. Somewhere along the way, there was a subtle shift that made it easier for Yoongi to admit what he was thinking, what he was feeling, trained by Namjoon’s patient voice and gentle praise.

“I don’t want you to commit to something just because you think it might be okay,” Namjoon says. “I wouldn’t want to do it unless you were sure.”

“That’s why I’m not committing to anything. But I guess… That’s also why I feel like I can trust you. You seem to actually give a shit.”

“I do give a shit,” Namjoon says earnestly, leaning forward in his chair. “I give so many shits you have no idea.”

Yoongi ducks his head, laughing. Namjoon is different. He’s so different from anyone Yoongi has ever worked with. The duality between his real personality and his Dom persona is enough to give Yoongi whiplash in the most endearing way.

Namjoon presses on, undeterred. “I’d be happy to practice with you. I—not to sound like the asshole you thought I was, but I think… I mean, I know I’ll take care of you. Yoongi, I’ll take such good care of you. I just—it’s not like I’m the most capable Dom in the world or anything, but I… I would worry that another Dom wouldn’t watch you the way I would. I mean, I know this isn’t about me. You need to do what makes you most comfortable, but I just… I’m going to stop talking.”

Namjoon’s face is red by the time he stops, and he’s staring down at the dregs of his tea as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world, and Yoongi’s chest warms. It doesn’t feel like Namjoon is being possessive. It feels like he’s being protective. It feels like he cares.

Yoongi trusts him. More than ever, Yoongi trusts him.

“Okay.” It comes out on a shaky breath, Yoongi’s heart beating a panicked rhythm in his chest—something between excitement and ‘what have I done?’

“You don’t have to decide now,” Namjoon says. He pauses, dampening his lips. “I know there are things you aren’t telling me—that’s okay. You don’t owe me anything. But you owe it to yourself to do this right. I think the worst thing you could do for yourself would be to rush into it without taking the time to think it over.”

Yoongi nods. How is it that Namjoon seems to know what he needs to hear? He does need time to think about this, even if Namjoon has made the choice easy. If he ever wants to try subbing again, there’s no one in the world better than Namjoon for him to try it with.

He knows what he wants. He wants Namjoon’s gentle voice and soothing words, his kind heart and his capable hands. He wants to sub again, and he wants to do it with Namjoon.

“How about this,” Namjoon says, “I want you to make a list. Kinks and things you like, you know? Set some boundaries. Think about what you’re open to and what’s off the table. Include some things for aftercare, too. That will make it more real for you, I think. Help you decide if this is what you really want.”

“Kinks and limits,” Yoongi repeats shakily. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

Namjoon lifts his eyebrows expectantly. “And?”

“Um.” Yoongi flounders for a moment, caught under Namjoon’s gaze. “Oh. Oh—aftercare.”

Namjoon’s eyes squint as a fond smile lights up his face. “You’re such a good boy, Yoongi.”

The warmth of Namjoon’s words stays in Yoongi’s chest the whole way home, keeping a small smile tugging at his lips. He wants to be good. He wants Namjoon to be proud of him.

He starts on his list that night.

Yoongi is still shaking and silent when he and Taehyung pull up to the house. He can still feel the echo of the turbulence beneath his feet, still envision the flashes of lightning outside the plane window. And even through that, somehow, he’d managed to hold himself together. Despite the feeling that the plane would plummet straight down with every bump of turbulence, despite the crying babies and startled gasps from other passengers. He wasn’t okay, but at least he wasn’t adding to slow-building group hysteria.

Then, after a particularly sharp drop, one of the flight attendants—strapped into their own seat—burst into tears.

Yoongi doesn’t remember anything after that.

Taehyung’s hand on his arm now is firm and grounding as he walks Yoongi through the gate and unlocks the front door. It’s not even raining, that’s the worst part, because it makes Yoongi feel a little unreal. Like he imagined the whole thing.

The one thing he didn’t imagine was how badly he wanted Namjoon with him. He missed his presence in the airport, through security, as he picked out a spot to sit at the gate and hoped no one sat down beside him. He missed him when his Xanax stuck in the back of his dry throat, the echo of Namjoon’s gentle voice offering to get him something to drink.

Realistically, he doesn’t know what Namjoon could have done for him on the actual flight. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference at all. All he knows is that, for whatever reason, he wished the armrest that he’d been clinging to was Namjoon’s hand.

“I’m not leaving until you can talk to me, okay?” Taehyung says gently. He places a glass of water in front of Yoongi, and it’s only then that Yoongi realizes they’ve made it inside and he’s sitting at the table. Taehyung sits down across from him. “I’m so sorry—I know it was awful, but you’re okay. You made it. Everything is fine.”

It’s not as helpful as Taehyung probably thinks, but Yoongi nods anyway. He knows he’s okay. That makes the lingering anxiety feel even worse. Because it’s irrational. No matter how scared everyone else was, they walked off the flight with relieved laughter, even if their eyes were still wet with tears. As soon as it was over, it became a funny story for them, a nightmare they could put behind them once they were safe on the ground.

How many of those funny stories would he be featured in? The grown-ass man having a meltdown over a little bit of turbulence.

“Hey.” Taehyung lays his hand over Yoongi’s, squeezing it firmly. “Don’t think about it. Everything is okay now.”

Yoongi twists his hand out from under Taehyung’s and digs his lighter and pack of cigarettes out of his duffel bag.

“Don’t smoke in here, Yoongi, I mean it.”

Yoongi lights up anyway, and Taehyung sighs. “You’re lucky I like you, you know that? This stays between us. You can’t tell the others I’m letting this slide.”

Yoongi can only keep his eyes down, focusing on getting his breathing back under control with each hot, smoky inhale. He’s here. The flight was fucking terrible, maybe the worst he’s ever been on, but he made it. Namjoon said that makes him strong, but Yoongi doesn’t feel strong at all right now.

He just feels weak. Defeated.

“Hey, look at it this way: Maybe this will be a turning point for you,” Taehyung says brightly. “You made it through this, so future flights will be a piece of cake.”

Okay.

That’s enough of that.

Yoongi holds his cigarette between his lips, shifting his weight so he can pull his phone out of his back pocket. He turns it back on to type out a note telling Taehyung to kindly shut the fuck up, please and thank you, only for a small burst of missed notifications to appear on the screen. The most recent is a text from Namjoon.

Namjoon [11:47]
Hey Yoongi! I hope you had an easy flight. I have some shoots scheduled this weekend so I might see you on Friday depending on when you leave. Either way I hope you get a chance to unwind now. You deserve it :)

Yoongi doesn’t realize he’s frozen, staring at the message, until Taehyung gently clears his throat.

“What is it?” Taehyung asks. “Did something happen?”

Yoongi shakes his head, turning his phone around so Taehyung can see the message.

“Namjoon?” One of Taehyung’s eyebrows lifts as his eyes flick over the words, his head tilting in thought. “I guess this means the rivalry is over?”

Yeah. Yeah, it is, Yoongi realizes. It was over before it started because Namjoon isn’t interested in taking Yoongi’s place. He doesn’t have the time to commit to as many roles as Yoongi does. Regardless of the sudden interest in Namjoon, Yoongi’s career is safe.

And Namjoon… he’s nice. Weird and horribly awkward, maybe, but nice. Yoongi doesn’t want to be enemies. It would just be another thing to be anxious about, and Yoongi has more than enough of that. Especially when he knows Namjoon can make him feel so secure.

He turns his phone around and types out a response. “Thanks. It was a really fucking shitty flight actually. Hope to see you Friday.” He hesitates, his thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button, before he deletes it all and replies, “Thanks.”

He doesn’t want to look too dependent on Namjoon. He’s not dependent on Namjoon. Agreeing to help Yoongi get back into subbing doesn’t mean that he wants to take care of Yoongi all the time.

Taehyung lets the topic of Namjoon drop until later that afternoon, when Yoongi finds himself talking again. They’re settled on the couch, some show playing on TV that they haven’t quite been paying attention to.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Taehyung says, “I’m glad you guys are getting along, but I’m curious to know what changed.”

“A lot of things. I don’t know.” It’s not worth rehashing the details—Yoongi is tired of embarrassing himself. But there is something he wants Taehyung’s opinion on. He keeps his eyes glued on the screen as he bites at his nails. “We’ve been talking about me getting back into subbing.”

He feels Taehyung straighten beside him. “What? Seriously?”

“Not professionally. At least, not yet. I just…” Yoongi lets his hand drop away from his mouth, his fingers twisting in his lap. “I miss it. And he thinks it would help if I could practice getting comfortable with someone I trust.”

“Like who?” Taehyung asks, a hesitance in his voice that says he already knows.

“I mean, he’s the only Dom I know. So.” Yoongi shrugs.

“And you trust him enough for that?”

It feels weird to admit this out loud to someone other than Namjoon, so far removed from their safe little pastel pink bubble at the teashop. “Yeah. Don’t tell me it’s weird. I already know it’s fucking weird.”

“It’s unexpected,” Taehyung says. “But I don’t think it’s a bad idea as long as you’re comfortable with it. Are you comfortable with it?”

“I don’t know. I’m comfortable with him, I guess. Comfortable enough. But I don’t think…” He pauses, sucking in a breath. “I don’t know if I can ever sub on camera again. But if I ever want to work up to that, it feels like I need to start here.”

He sounds more confident—more optimistic—than he actually feels. Even if he survives a scene with Namjoon, the thought of being that vulnerable on set again is just… It’s hardly a thought at all. He can’t picture it enough to even be scared of it. It’s as impossible, as far removed from him, as doing a scene on the fucking moon. He can’t feel anything toward it because it won’t happen.

“And you chose this?” Taehyung prompts. “You want this?” When Yoongi nods, Taehyung adds, “Namjoon is a really good guy—I wouldn’t have signed him if he wasn’t. I think this could be exactly what you need. I just need to know you’ll be safe.”

Yoongi snorts. “What? Like condoms?”

“No, like…” Taehyung suddenly becomes very interested in the remote, tracing his fingertip around the buttons. “Like. Text me—or even Jimin—the details. Where you’re going to be, when you’re done, that sort of thing.”

“You make it sound like he’s going to murder me. It’s not exactly reassuring.”

“It’s common sense,” Taehyung says. “Shit can go wrong. We both know that. It’s just good to have people who know where you are and what you’re doing in case—I don’t know—”

“In case I end up handcuffed to the bed, and he dies of a sudden heart attack, leaving me trapped and defenseless?”

Taehyung’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s… weirdly specific, but… Yeah. Basically.”

Yoongi sighs, looking back down at his fingers in his lap. Namjoon would have understood the reference. He would have laughed, probably. Would have assured Yoongi that they would use leather cuffs with a quick-release mechanism or something.

God. He really is fucked.

He’s doing this. It’s going to happen. He hardly even needed Taehyung’s assurance. What he needed was Taehyung’s uncertainty, his words of caution, just to make him realize how unnecessary they are.

He’ll take whatever precautions he needs to, but Namjoon isn’t going to put him in danger. He trusts that, believes in that, more than anything else.

Yoongi slowly works on his list throughout the week, writing and rewriting it, before finally giving up on paper and typing it on his laptop. It’s hard to be specific with something like this—he knows how important it is to be honest, but it leaves him feeling exposed.

But he supposes that’s the point. He’s handing himself over to Namjoon on purpose, to own and to control for the entirety of their session. He’s going to be vulnerable. He’s going to let Namjoon see every part of him, even the scarred, ugly parts of his soul. He might break, and he has to trust Namjoon to catch all the pieces and shape them into something beautiful.

He does trust him. Completely.

So he writes his kinks even if they make his face burn, swallowing down whiskey when he needs an extra push. He writes his limits in even greater detail. And then, strangely, the hardest part to write is what he wants for aftercare. He knows what he wants, but he feels a bit silly, a bit pathetic, sitting alone in his room in the middle of the night, typing things like ‘hugs and kisses’, ‘cuddling’, and ‘treat me like you love me’. It’s the vaguest part of the list, but it will have to do.

He makes himself call it finished by Thursday night, mostly because he’s tired of looking at it. And maybe because some part of him is hoping to see Namjoon the next day.

The printed list is heavy in his pocket when he descends the stairs on Friday morning, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t have to wait long for Taehyung to arrive, the telling thud of car doors opening and closing filtering in through the window. And then, before they even come inside, Yoongi can hear Namjoon’s voice.

“… and almost missed the flight because I left my phone in the bathroom.”

Yoongi huffs, smiling as he hears Taehyung’s key slide into the lock.

“At least you made it,” Taehyung says as he comes in. “I would have handed your roles over to Yoongi, you know that, right?”

Yoongi’s eyes lock with Namjoon’s over Taehyung’s shoulder as he enters the house. A bright smile stretches across Namjoon’s face, dimples digging into his cheeks.

“That would have been okay,” Namjoon says.

Taehyung rolls his eyes, stepping aside as Namjoon lets himself in, placing his luggage at the bottom of the stairs.

“Wow, so the rivalry thing really is nonexistent, huh?” Taehyung asks.

He’s talking to Namjoon, Yoongi thinks, so Yoongi doesn’t bother to answer. Namjoon, though, has turned his back to Taehyung to approach Yoongi.

“Hi,” Namjoon says, soft and sweet, and there’s some kind of fuzzy spark in Yoongi’s chest.

Like. Indigestion or something.

Anxiety. Because his last flight was so rough, and he’s not looking forward to this one. That’s all.

“Hey.”

The silence between them is cozy, not quite awkward, and Taehyung’s muttered “Jesus fuck” seems extra loud.

“I’ll meet you in the car, Yoongi,” he says. “You have five minutes. Hear me?”

Yoongi picks up his bag. “I’m coming,” he snaps. Still, he doesn’t move to follow—doesn’t move at all—until Taehyung goes back outside. He shifts his attention back to Namjoon. “I, um… I have something for you.”

“You do?” Namjoon sounds so genuinely surprised, almost excited, that Yoongi is even more embarrassed about pulling his weird-ass kink list out of his pocket. Namjoon was probably expecting a gift or something—some kind of succulent or, like, bamboo toilet paper, whatever. Instead, he gets a few stapled sheets of paper, warped on the edges from Yoongi’s clammy grip, filled with shit like “you can cut my clothes off” and “I’m okay with piss.”

Namjoon’s smile, however, doesn’t falter. “Is this what I think it is?” he asks, flipping through the pages.

Yoongi nods. His gaze settles on Namjoon’s fingers, long and dark, a fingertip tracing the top corner of the page as he skims. “So…” Namjoon starts, pausing until Yoongi meets his eyes. “Are we… Do you want to do this?”

Yoongi nods. “Yeah, I… I tried to talk myself out of it, but—I couldn’t. So.”

Namjoon’s smile, somehow, seems even wider as he looks back down at the list. “You did a really good job on this,” he says as he flips to the second page, which details Yoongi’s limits. His smile begins to fade, his brows pulling together, and Yoongi almost wants to bolt.

“Yoongi,” Namjoon says, so very gentle. “I would never punish you for being unable to respond to me.”

It’s not that Yoongi thought he would, but it’s something that’s all too easy for him to imagine: Namjoon being disappointed or disgusted when Yoongi can’t respect him with a simple “Yes Sir” or “No Sir.”

When Yoongi doesn’t respond, Namjoon adds, “But this is good. I’m glad you included stuff like this. I need to know all of these things.”

“What happens now?” Yoongi asks.

Namjoon folds the list, holding it close. “Let’s schedule a session,” he says. “Date, time, and place are up to you, but I would suggest your home or mine for privacy. I think you would feel more reliant on me in an unfamiliar environment, but choose wherever you would feel safest.”

Somehow, the suggestion seems sudden, even though Yoongi has had over a week to come to terms with it. “I…”

“You don’t have to decide now,” Namjoon tells him. “Just think about it. You can text me when you have something in mind, and we can work it out from there—whether it’s tomorrow or next year.” He pauses, thinking. “Well… Tomorrow actually doesn’t work for me because, you know, I’m here, and you’re about to leave and—I guess that rules out Sunday, too. But I’ll be home Monday evening, so anytime after that. Or never, I guess, if you change your mind. That’s totally fine, too.”

Yoongi pushes out a breath and shoves his hands into his pockets to keep from biting his nails. The fact that Namjoon isn’t totally unaffected by this is weirdly comforting, his nervous babbling soothing some of the anxiety that was tingling in Yoongi’s chest. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll—”

The sound of Taehyung’s car horn cuts him off, like a disgruntled mom breaking up a kiss on prom night. Yoongi rolls his eyes—at Taehyung, mostly, but also at himself for even allowing the comparison to cross his mind.

“I’ll text you,” he says, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder.

“I did some research,” Namjoon says quickly. Yoongi pauses, half-turned toward the door, and lifts an eyebrow curiously. “Did you know there were only, like, 130 fatalities from airline accidents last year? Worldwide. I don’t know if that helps at all, but math is on your side.” Namjoon glances away, dampening his lips. “And I am, too.”

Yoongi huffs, smiling despite himself. “Thank you, Namjoon.”

It doesn’t make a difference, not really. Still, knowing Namjoon took the time to look this up makes Yoongi feel a little better anyway.

They end up scheduling their session for the following weekend. Yoongi decided to do it sooner rather than later—partially to get it over with, partially because he’s kind of looking forward to it.

On Friday afternoon, Namjoon shows up to go over Yoongi’s list and address any last-minute concerns. They end up sitting across from each other at Yoongi’s kitchen table, and it suddenly feels more like a business transaction than preparation for kinky sex. Yoongi’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse—if anything, he feels like an insect pinned down under a microscope.

Namjoon is looking down at the list, clicking a pen against his chin, pointing out sections he’s notated.

“Impact play,” Namjoon reads off, tapping his finger against the page. “Is this a ‘Yes’ as in, like, you’re okay with it as a punishment? Or do you actually like it?”

Yoongi’s face warms. He lifts his cigarette to his mouth in a halfhearted attempt to hide his lips as he mutters, “I like it.”

“Cool. Perfect.” Namjoon checks it off, scribbles something in the margin, and Yoongi squirms in his seat. So that’s happening, apparently. If the checkmark is anything to go by. A shiver races down Yoongi’s spine. “Do you bruise easily?”

Yoongi huffs. “Extremely.”

“Is that okay? Do you want to be marked?”

There’s something very unfulfilling about the thought of walking away from a scene without being marked. “Yeah. Definitely. It should be fine as long as it’s under my clothes. I don’t usually have to undress completely for work.” It would be different if he got cast in a vanilla scene, but he’ll deal with that if it happens.

Namjoon nods knowingly, jotting down a few more notes, and this really shouldn’t be sexy. Like, not at all. He’s giving more ‘eager new accountant on their first day of work’ vibes than ‘serious sexy Dom.’ But maybe that’s also why this is so easy.

They discuss a few options, things Yoongi might like to be hit with and where, ironing out the details.

“We need to talk about how far we’re going, too,” Namjoon says. He flips the page over to write on the back. “What did you have in mind?”

“Um.” Yoongi coughs against the back of his wrist, tapping the excess ash off his cigarette out the window. “I figured you’d fuck me, I guess.”

He’s forced to meet Namjoon’s eyes when he doesn’t get a response, only to find a hint of a frown on Namjoon’s face.

“What?” Yoongi asks, a little more defensively than he intended. “Don’t you want—?” He has his cigarette halfway to his mouth when he realizes. “For fuck’s sake, don’t tell me that was bad for the environment or something. I’ll get an ashtray—Jesus.”

“No, no—it’s not that,” Namjoon says before Yoongi can get up. “It’s just—it sounds like you haven’t thought about this.”

“The environmental consequences of smoking?”

“What you actually want from our scene.”

Yoongi sighs, lowering his gaze to the list. “All I know is that I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

“I know,” Namjoon says gently. “We’ll get there. We just need to make sure we’re doing it right. Do you want this to be sexual?”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Maybe it’s one of the downsides of only ever practicing BDSM in porn, but the thought of playing with power dynamics, pushing his limits, and not ending him with getting railed seems… weird. Foreign.

“It is for some people,” Namjoon replies. “If that’s what you want, we can—”

“I haven’t bottomed in a long time,” Yoongi interjects, his face burning. “Or subbed. I haven’t… Maybe this is a bad idea.”

It feels like a bad idea suddenly. Too big, too overwhelming, a mountain that he can’t even begin to climb because he’ll never make it over.

“You don’t have to do this,” Namjoon reminds him. “But I think… Maybe it would be better if we started with the one that’s less stressful for you. Subbing or bottoming. Then we can build up from that if you want.”

It’s a good thought, but Yoongi doesn’t know which is less stressful. Subbing and bottoming were both ruined for him at the same time.

“Can I give you my opinion?”

Yoongi nods, fighting back the tightness in his throat. He knows what Namjoon is going to say—that they shouldn’t continue until Yoongi figures it out. But he’ll never figure it out. If he could, he would have done it already.

“Subbing seems to come naturally to you,” Namjoon says, and Yoongi blinks up at him in surprise. “And just—not even in a sexual way, necessarily. You seem to be comforted by structure, being told what to do. And you follow orders so well, you’re so good.”

Yoongi ducks his head to hide his smile, warmth curling in his chest as the tension eases out of him. “You’re not wrong, I guess.” It wasn’t the thought of being tied down and teased that made Yoongi panic that night. He was fine until the video shifted its focus to penetration, until he tried to touch himself.

“So maybe we could start with that,” Namjoon says. “And it can be sexual or not—that’s your call. Does that sound okay?”

Yoongi nods and lifts his cigarette to his mouth, taking a long drag. “Yeah, I think—I think that would be okay. Define ‘sexual,’ just for clarity’s sake.”

“That’s up to you,” Namjoon says. “I’m up for whatever, I’m just not going to fuck you this time. But, like, blowjobs? Handjobs? That sort of thing.”

Yoongi’s mind is swimming with possibilities, his pulse thrumming in his throat. “Yeah—yeah, any of that would work, I think. I don’t think it will feel right if I don’t come in the end.”

“Cool.” The smile in Namjoon’s voice brings one onto Yoongi’s face, too. When he looks up, they just grin at each other for a moment like lovestruck teenagers—except they’re not. They’re essentially coworkers, actors rehearsing on their own time, honing their craft.

It just feels like so much more.

By the time Yoongi arrives at Namjoon’s house the next day, he’s shaking with nerves. Anxiety twists and writhes in his chest like a living thing, making him sit in his car a little longer than necessary, hands clutching the steering wheel as he focuses on taking one slow breath after another. He tricks himself into letting go of the wheel by reminding himself he needs to text Taehyung, and then, with that done, he’s out of excuses.

When he makes himself approach the house, Namjoon opens the door as if he’s been waiting for him. Maybe he has been. Maybe he’s been watching Yoongi sitting in his car and wondering if he’d leave.

Yoongi had been wondering the same thing himself. But now, standing here in Namjoon’s kitchen, he feels like he’s accomplished something. Like this is a step in the right direction.

“Are you nonverbal right now?” Namjoon asks softly. He hands Yoongi a glass of water that he thinks he’s too anxious to drink.

Yoongi swallows hard, shaking his head minutely. “No,” he manages. Everything about this is so overwhelming; it’s hard for him to even remember to talk. Now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure he hasn’t said a word since he arrived.

Namjoon’s expression softens. “That reminds me. I made something for you.”

He moves over to the kitchen table, and Yoongi takes a few hesitant steps after him, oddly nervous. Namjoon picks something up, muffled rattling coming from behind his closed fingers as he offers his hand to Yoongi.

When Yoongi reaches out, Namjoon drops a loop of teal ribbon with a bell on it into his palm. Yoongi stares down at it.

“What’s this?” he asks tightly. “A friendship bracelet?”

Namjoon smiles, even as his cheeks pinken. “No, it’s—I want you to hold onto this. If you can’t speak to me and you want to stop, or if you’re uncomfortable or need a break, you can get my attention with this. I’ll stop everything until I understand what you need. Okay?”

It’s so simple. It’s so simple that it’s almost funny. It makes so much sense now that the bell is in his hand—subs are bound and gagged all the time. They don’t lose their right to stop the scene just because they consent to give up their ability to communicate. This is probably so common, something so obvious to anyone who knows what they’re doing.

Yoongi had no idea.

He could still be subbing now if he’d known. It would have spared him so many sleepless nights, so much fear, pain, and loss. One bad scene made it feel like his entire identity crumbled apart—he lost his boyfriend and almost gave up his job entirely. He’d been plagued ever since by a quiet, smothering depression—a pool so dark it’s impossible to tell how deep it goes, what deadly things lie beneath the surface.

A year of suffering that could have been prevented with a cheap fucking jingle bell.

He feels so stupid.

He sucks in a wet breath through his teeth, burning in his lungs as his face crumples, and Namjoon is right there, hands hovering just inches away from Yoongi’s body.

“Can I—?”

Yoongi nods rapidly, and he’s not sure if he steps into Namjoon’s embrace or if Namjoon tugs him into it. He collapses against Namjoon’s chest, broad and firm and warm. Namjoon’s arms curl around his shoulders, clutching him close like he’s something special, like he’s cherished.

It’s the first time Namjoon has ever touched him.

The realization only makes Yoongi huddle closer, cling tighter. Even though he’s about to give Namjoon complete control of his body, Namjoon still respects him enough to ask, to not take their session as a blanket approval to touch Yoongi whenever he wants. And Yoongi is…

Overwhelmed.

Devastated.

Being cared for and having his boundaries respected in the most basic way—it shouldn’t hurt. But the pain squeezing in his chest and burning in his eyes is almost a relief, like a broken bone being moved into place so it can finally heal.

And Namjoon holds him through it all, keeps him close, swaying him gently. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t pry. He only waits, enduringly patient in a way Yoongi has never deserved.

Once his breath comes back to him and the tears subside, Namjoon slowly loosens his hold. He doesn’t let go of Yoongi completely, just shifts back enough to carefully take Yoongi’s face in his hands.

“Hey,” Namjoon murmurs, smoothing his thumbs over the tear tracks on Yoongi’s cheeks. It’s slow and careful in a way that makes Yoongi feel fragile. Protected. “How are you feeling right now? Are these good or bad tears?”

“Both, I think. Mostly good.”

Namjoon nods, warm fingers smoothing over Yoongi’s cheeks once more. “Are you still up for playing? We can wait if—”

“I don’t want to wait,” Yoongi says quickly. He sniffs and wipes his eyes with his fingertips, offering Namjoon a teasing grin. “You’ve made me wait so long that I’m going to have to find another Dom if you won’t take care of me.”

Something dark flickers in Namjoon’s eyes that makes Yoongi’s heart kick, but Namjoon’s laugh comes out light and normal. “Good,” he says simply. “Now we both know you want this.”

Yoongi has known for a long time now, but any lingering doubts he may have had were forgotten the moment Namjoon handed him the bell.

Namjoon takes a step back, and his hands slide away from Yoongi’s face. “Go ahead and kneel down in the middle of the living room for me. Hands behind your back.”

Yoongi draws a shaky breath as he moves back into the adjoining living room. He winds his fingers through the ribbon attached to the bell, clutching it in the clammy warmth of his fist. There’s plenty of room with the furniture pushed back—if Namjoon owns a coffee table, then he must have relocated it to free up space.

There’s a soft-looking rug in what appears to be the exact center of the room, which means it’s probably where Namjoon intends for him to go. His knees sink into the thick fibers as he lowers himself, a comfortable padding even through his jeans. He crosses his wrists over the small of his back and waits. He’s fully dressed but he still feels exposed, his heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird.

He hears Namjoon approaching him from behind, soft footfalls against the wood floor that reverberate through Yoongi’s skin, every part of him prickling with the anticipation of touch when he feels Namjoon come to a stop behind him.

But it doesn’t come. The room is silent except for Yoongi’s breaths, slow and measured through his nose, catching and shaking a little on every exhale. He keeps his eyes trained on the shelf in front of him, crammed with books. He can’t focus enough to read the titles, but there’s still a book that catches his eye—a navy blue spine with metallic gold writing, glinting in the light of the candles placed around the room. And it grounds him, keeps him from looking over his shoulder.

They’ve barely started. Namjoon hasn’t even instructed him to keep his eyes forward, but Yoongi wants to be good.

He wants to be good.

There’s a quick movement on either side of his head, just a blur out of the corner of his eyes, then he feels the cool press of leather against his throat. Namjoon’s fingers brush teasingly against the back of his neck as he secures the collar in place, tiny breaths of sensation that burst through Yoongi’s skin like flames.

“Pretty,” Namjoon murmurs. His hands land heavily on Yoongi’s shoulders, squeezing possessively. “I’ve wanted to see you in a collar from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Yoongi’s mouth goes dry as Namjoon’s hands slide down his arms, slow and deliberate, tracing the slight curves of muscle and the angles of his bones. Namjoon stoops down behind him, holding both of Yoongi’s wrists in one hand, and even that’s enough to draw out a small moan as a tremor sparks through Yoongi’s core.

A small squeeze and then Namjoon’s hand is gone, replaced with a leather cuff around one wrist and then the other.

Yoongi flexes his arms, testing the hold. The cuffs hold tight, the slight ache of resistance in his muscles all at once familiar and terrifying. Namjoon’s hands slide around his waist, easing him back against Namjoon’s chest.

“You good?” It’s no more than a breath against Yoongi’s ear, tickling against his skin.

“Yeah,” Yoongi sighs, letting his head fall back on Namjoon’s shoulder. It is good—so good. This is what he wants—what he needs. He’s safe with Namjoon. His mind knows that even if some instinctive part of his body wants to fear it, fight it. It’s been so long since he’s given up control. He’d almost forgotten that it’s hard, that it takes practice. His body, his mind—they need to be retrained to relax and behave.

Namjoon’s hands skim over his torso, never once dipping beneath his shirt, tracing the lines of his ribs and skirting just past his nipples.

“Are you going to be a good boy for me?”

“Yes.” Yoongi sucks in a breath as Namjoon’s hands slide down to squeeze his thighs, his fingers tracing back up the V of his legs and avoiding the rapidly hardening bulge of his cock. His touch is muted, distant through Yoongi’s jeans, and he suddenly wishes he’d worn something else—anything else.

Namjoon hums against Yoongi’s neck, pressing a kiss there. “What are your safewords?”

Namjoon knows his safewords—Yoongi knows he does. They’re the same ones they use at work, the ones they discussed yesterday as they went over Yoongi’s list. Namjoon’s not asking because he doesn’t know; he’s asking to remind Yoongi that it’s okay to use them.

“Traffic lights,” Yoongi says, breathless, as Namjoon’s fingers skim beneath the edge of his shirt.

“Be more specific.”

Yoongi swallows thickly, dampening his lips. “Green means I like what we’re doing. Yellow—keep the scene going but do something else. Red means stop immediately.”

“Good boy.” Namjoon’s hands move above his shirt again, brushing his nipples through the fabric. He’s so sensitive already, the texture of the material drawing out a shudder and a quiet moan. “And if you can’t speak?”

“Bell,” Yoongi gasps. He arches his back slightly, pushing his chest out to chase Namjoon’s touch.

“You’re so smart.” Namjoon kisses his neck again, his cheek, then pulls away entirely.

Yoongi sags forward, breathing hard. His dick is already throbbing, aching in the confines of his jeans, his hands shaking behind his back.

He can feel the movement of Namjoon standing up, his presence a noticeable tingle against Yoongi’s skin as he slowly moves to stand in front of him.

“I read your kinks,” Namjoon tells him. “You’re a twisted little thing, aren’t you?”

Yoongi keeps his eyes down, his face burning. He shouldn’t have been that descriptive—he knew he shouldn’t have been that descriptive. This is their first and perhaps only time playing together; Namjoon probably didn’t need or want to know most of the things Yoongi included.

Which means, instead, he only handed Namjoon an arsenal of ammunition to humiliate him with.

“Look at me.” Namjoon’s voice is a little firmer, a little more domineering. Yoongi draws in a shuddering breath to steady himself. His eyes follow the long line of Namjoon’s body with his eyes until he reaches his calm, stoic face. “I have some rules I expect you to follow. If you break them or fail to follow a command, you will be punished.”

A whimper trembles in Yoongi’s throat. “O-okay.”

Namjoon frowns. “Rule number one: As long as you can speak, I expect you to address me as ‘Sir’ any time you answer a question.”

“I…” Yoongi’s shoulders curl in protectively. “What if I can’t speak?”

“Then you nod or shake your head. I won’t punish you for that,” Namjoon reminds him, a subtle note of softness in his tone. “Understand?”

“Yeah.” Yoongi’s face flushes with heat. “Um—Sir. Yes Sir.”

“Careful,” Namjoon warns, and shame writhes in Yoongi’s chest. “Rule number two: Your body is mine to use as I see fit. You will ask permission before touching yourself, coming, or using the toilet.”

“Oh god.” Yoongi groans, heat flaring in his gut even as shame makes him want to look away. It takes a physical effort for Yoongi to focus on Namjoon’s face, but Namjoon’s expression remains impassive, unaffected, as if he’s talking about an object and not Yoongi’s body.

“If I decide you don’t deserve to come,” Namjoon goes on, “then you won’t. If I want to watch you touch yourself until you’re crying from overstimulation, then you will. Your body is for my entertainment. If you bore me, I might decide it will be more fun to watch you squirm until you piss yourself. Got it?”

“Jesus, Namjoon,” Yoongi says around a breath, sweat trickling down his spine. Despite the things he’d seen in Namjoon’s videos, some part of him must have expected Namjoon to go easy on him. But these aren’t hard rules—not at all. They’re pretty basic when he thinks of them objectively. It’s just that Namjoon’s embellishment has Yoongi squirming in humiliation, the front of his underwear dampening with precome.

“I asked you a question,” Namjoon reminds him, low and stern.

“Yes Sir,” Yoongi blurts.

Namjoon lifts an eyebrow. “Do you even remember what I asked?”

“No Sir.”

“I thought you were smart,” Namjoon says, frowning, and it feels… bad. Not even bad in a good way. Just. Bad. Hearing Namjoon insult his intelligence makes him feel cold and unworthy. The job opportunities he’s missed out on, the judgment he’s endured—so much of it stemmed from an assumption of unintelligence.

He swallows hard, his throat clicking dryly as he shifts uncomfortably on his knees. “Um. Yellow. I don’t—please don’t.”

“Okay,” Namjoon says gently. His fingers comb through Yoongi’s hair, solid and reassuring. “My smart boy. You can handle a few more rules, right?”

“Yes Sir.” Yoongi angles his head toward Namjoon’s touch, but he’s already pulling away, reestablishing their distance. Their inequality.

What does Namjoon think of him now? It’s been so long since he’s subbed, he’s been so scared of it, and now he can’t even make it through a simple discussion of rules. He must look so pathetic, the complete opposite of the videos that made Namjoon want to do a scene with him in the first place. He must have thought he’d still be getting someone with experience, not someone so sensitive and insecure that they can’t handle their intelligence being demeaned.

It’s a cornerstone of BDSM, isn’t it? The dumb whore, the incapable cockslut, the stupid sub who is completely useless without a Dom to make decisions for them.

“Hey.” Gentle fingers take Yoongi’s chin and tilt his head up as Namjoon kneels down to his level. “You with me, baby?”

Yoongi can only nod, his lips sealed shut. He’s here, he can do this—he wants to do this. He just doesn’t want Namjoon to think less of him afterward.

“Do you need a break?”

A break. They haven’t even started.

Yoongi shakes his head.

Namjoon cups Yoongi’s face in his hands and draws him in, pressing firm, lingering kisses against Yoongi’s forehead. “You’re such a good boy, Yoongi. It’s okay to be nervous. That’s why we’re doing this, right? Here—look.” He reaches past Yoongi and picks up his list from behind him, just out of sight. He flips to the page of Yoongi’s limits and makes a note.

When he finishes, he turns the page around so Yoongi can see it. There, at the bottom, Namjoon added ‘insulting intelligence or using names that demean intelligence.’ “Good?” he asks. “We can hash out the details later.”

Yoongi nods. Good.

Namjoon puts the list aside once more and presses one last kiss to Yoongi’s forehead. “You’re such a good boy—this is exactly why we’re here. We’re figuring out your limits so you can feel comfortable subbing again. You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing, and I’m going to reward you for it once we finish going over the rules, okay?”

“Yes Sir,” Yoongi manages, a fractured whisper, and Namjoon smiles.

“Rule number three: If I allow you to orgasm and you’re still verbal, you must say ‘thank you Sir’ afterward.”

Yoongi nods. “Yes Sir.”

“And one final rule,” Namjoon says, “just because you were a brat today. You are not to suggest or even think about other Doms in my presence.” The dark heat Yoongi had noticed in Namjoon’s eyes earlier is suddenly back, an excited fear coiling inside him. He hadn’t even meant anything with his comment about finding another Dom—they both know that he wouldn’t be comfortable with anyone else. He was just trying to lighten the mood and get them back on track, but there’s something exciting about the realization that Namjoon pays attention to his every word.

“Tonight, you belong to me. And I’m going to make sure you remember that.” Namjoon picks up something from the bookshelf and closes the distance between them once more, something cold and metal sliding up Yoongi’s bicep to slip under his sleeve, resting blunt and heavy against his shoulder.

The proximity makes it difficult to focus his eyes on what’s touching him, Namjoon’s fingers hooked through curved handles—then it clicks, and Yoongi’s cock throbs.

“Color?” Namjoon prompts.

“Green, Sir.”

The words have barely left his lips when the scissors cut effortlessly from the edge of his sleeve and all the way to his neckline, his shirt falling open. Namjoon cuts the other side just as efficiently, quick and silent, and Yoongi’s shirt drops to the floor in a useless loop of fabric around his knees.

Yoongi sucks in a breath as the cool air rushes over his skin, his nipples tightening. Namjoon doesn’t even look, doesn’t touch. He simply grabs a thick, wide-tip marker out of his back pocket and presses the closed cap against the corner of Yoongi’s lips.

“Bite,” he commands. Yoongi clamps his molars around the cap and Namjoon yanks the marker open, the sharp scent of permanent ink flooding his nose and wafting over his tongue. “Keep holding that,” Namjoon adds.

Drool pools around the cap as Namjoon leans in and writes something just beneath Yoongi’s collarbone, the broad, flat edge of the felt tip dragging and scratching over Yoongi’s skin.

A dribble of saliva makes it past Yoongi’s bottom lip, working its way down his chin. Yoongi slurps back the excess, struggling to swallow with his mouth wedged open.

Namjoon finishes writing with a flourish of the marker that digs into Yoongi’s skin, then steps back to admire his work. Yoongi can only sit there, exposed and messy, while Namjoon looks over his body critically.

“What did I write?” Namjoon asks finally.

Yoongi knows it’s a mistake—he knows it’s a mistake, but it’s too late to stop himself. When he tilts his head down to look, the pool of saliva in his mouth spills free, dripping down his lips and chin. He whines, struggling to suck it back in while keeping a tight hold on the cap, jerking his head back, only ending up with strings of spit snapping back onto his cheek for his effort.

Namjoon laughs. “Cute. This is who you really are, isn’t it?”

“Yes Sir.” It comes out muffled and clumsy around the cap. Saliva moves down his neck in agonizingly slow trickles, more dripping from his chin and onto his chest.

“I asked you a question,” Namjoon reminds him. “What did I write? You’re a smart boy, you can figure it out.”

Yoongi had seen enough when he looked down to figure it out. He closes his eyes in shame and pulls in a wet breath, a dull ache in the hinge of his jaw. “‘amjoo’s whore,” Yoongi manages around the cap. He sucks back the drool pooling in the corners of his lips. “Sir.”

Namjoon hums in affirmation, gently plucking the cap from Yoongi’s mouth to close the marker. Yoongi’s arms flex against the cuffs in an impulse to rub at his jaw, to wipe the spit off his face, and clammy heat rushes up his torso when he remembers he can’t. He’s stuck like this until Namjoon decides he needs to clean himself up.

If Namjoon decides he needs to clean himself up.

“And why did I have to write that?”

“Because I’m your whore, Sir.”

Namjoon smiles, dragging a finger through the saliva on Yoongi’s chin and pressing it back into his mouth. “You got it.”

Yoongi’s lips instinctively close around Namjoon’s finger, swallowing it deep, eager to show Namjoon how good he is with his mouth. He sucks on it gently, working his tongue along the underside as he looks up at Namjoon through his lashes, seeking out a smile, or maybe something better—maybe he can catch Namjoon off guard, impress him.

Instead, Namjoon’s expression is somewhere between pity and disappointment. He drags his finger out of Yoongi’s mouth, and Yoongi can’t help trying to follow after it, leaning forward. Namjoon only takes the opportunity to wipe his finger off on Yoongi’s cheek.

“Impatient,” Namjoon says, sighing. “You can’t help it, can you? It’s your nature to serve. I don’t know how you managed to trick everyone into believing you were a Dominant all this time.”

Dragging Yoongi’s Dom role into this was something Yoongi had been unsure about, switching between marking it as a kink or a hard limit until he finally had to create a ‘Maybe’ list. But just like that, it’s gone from a Maybe to a big fucking Yes.

It’s embarrassing. It’s everything he’s been worried about for years. He’s a fraud, a fake, and one day someone will see right through him and he’ll lose everything. Being caught faking it and being forced into submission instead is so unexpectedly hot that Yoongi whines in frustration, squirming in his increasingly tight jeans, desperate to take some of the sharp pressure off his cock.

Namjoon tilts his head, considering. “But I promised you a reward, didn’t I?”

Yoongi straightens up as best he can, the wetness on his face and chest going cold, uncomfortable and sticky at the edges where it’s beginning to dry. “Yes Sir.”

“Would you like to show me what you can do with that pretty little mouth of yours?”

Yoongi groans, unable to stop himself from shuffling forward a bit on his knees. “Yes Sir—please Sir.”

“I thought you might.” Namjoon looks Yoongi’s body up and down, fixating on his jeans and frowning. “Get up. I want you naked first.”

Yoongi hesitates for a moment, waiting for Namjoon to uncuff him or at least hold onto him, but Namjoon only stands there. Composed. Waiting.

“Yes Sir,” Yoongi responds belatedly. His legs are a little numb from kneeling so long, tingling below the knee where the denim cut into his circulation.

He carefully shifts one foot out in front of him, hardly able to feel the rug through the tingling numbness in his toes. But he’s still able to push himself up, slow and easy, only staggering a little once he’s fully standing. Namjoon’s arms shift as if to reach out and catch him, and somehow that alone is enough for Yoongi to find his balance.

“Come here.” Namjoon gestures for Yoongi to come to him as if he were an animal. Yoongi eagerly stumbles through the three steps necessary to close the distance between them.

Namjoon pops the button on Yoongi’s jeans and drags down the zipper, shoving them roughly down his thighs. They’re loose enough that they fall straight to the floor, and Yoongi steps out of them, kicking them to the side.

Namjoon circles around behind him, stooping down to trace a finger over the deep indents on the back of one of Yoongi’s knees left by the folds in the denim. Yoongi knows from experience that it probably looks worse than it actually is, a shocking bright red against his pale skin.

“Yoongi.” He sounds so, so disappointed that Yoongi whimpers in shame. Namjoon rubs his fingers over the creases in Yoongi’s other knee, massaging it slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t notice, Sir,” Yoongi admits. It’s humiliating now that he says it out loud. He was so caught up in being degraded, submitting, that he couldn’t even notice he was uncomfortable.

Namjoon sighs that same, pitying sigh, like he can’t fathom the pathetic existence of a creature so intent to serve that it ignores its own needs. The thought only makes Yoongi’s cock throb in his briefs—that’s exactly what he is. That’s why he’s a submissive.

That’s why he needs Namjoon.

Namjoon skims his fingernails lightly down the sides of Yoongi’s legs, no more than a breath of a touch. “Can you feel that?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Good.” Namjoon squeezes his ankles, firm and fond, before pulling away. “Now I know to take your clothes away sooner next time.” Yoongi shivers. Next time. “I was trying to be nice to you and give you some privacy, but I can’t even rely on you to tell me when you’re uncomfortable, can I?”

Yoongi lowers his eyes. “No Sir,” he admits quietly.

“Maybe you need more structure,” Namjoon muses. “Some permanent rules. Any time you enter my home, you remove your clothing and wait for instructions. Would you like that?”

The groan feels like it was punched from Yoongi’s chest, the damp heat in his underwear making him shift his legs uncomfortably. “Yes Sir.”

“I figured you would. You know why?”

Yoongi sifts through the haze in his mind to find a decent answer. Because he’s incompetent? Stupid? Because he can’t be trusted? None of them feel right. He whimpers involuntarily, devastated at the thought of letting Namjoon down again.

Namjoon takes pity on him, tapping the writing on Yoongi’s chest. Oh.

“Because I’m your whore, Sir.”

“Damn right you are.” Namjoon’s pleased smile makes Yoongi’s face warm. A strong, comfortable surge of happiness bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest, a feeling of pure safety and contentment that he never thought he could feel again. He wants to do more, be more—anything to keep Namjoon smiling at him like this.

“Come on,” Namjoon says. He hooks his finger through the metal loop on the front of the collar. “I want to give you your reward.”

Yoongi follows the gentle tug toward the couch, warm and thoughtless, his mouth watering at the thought of getting to taste Namjoon’s cock, making him come. He’s good with his mouth, his tongue—so fucking good. It’s as if he’s been practicing for this for years, getting people off with his tongue just so he could one day make Namjoon proud of him.

Namjoon lets him go a few steps in front of the couch and then sits down, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him. Yoongi’s focus narrows in on Namjoon’s crotch, the thick bulge of his cock through his slacks. He starts to move closer when Namjoon stops him with a firm, “Not yet.”

Yoongi goes still, lifting his eyes to meet Namjoon’s. “Sir?”

“I said I wanted you naked,” Namjoon reminds him. “How am I supposed to get off if I don’t have something pretty to look at? Take your underwear off.”

Yoongi’s face burns. “Yes Sir.”

With his hands still cuffed behind his back, he has to work for it. It takes a few tries, the tips of his thumbs brushing against his lower back until he finally catches the edge of his underwear.

The soft sound of a zipper catches Yoongi’s attention and he glances up to see Namjoon opening his slacks and pulling his cock out. God, it’s a perfect cock, flushed and dark. And he’s huge—Yoongi has never seen him in person before. He suddenly wonders if he can fit all of it down his throat, a phantom ache in his jaw as his cock twitches eagerly.

“Did I say you could stop?” Namjoon asks sternly. Yoongi rips his eyes away, feeling caught and embarrassed.

“No Sir,” he whispers. He goes back to working on his underwear, but he’s still aware of Namjoon’s presence, his stare, his every move. And right now, Namjoon is starting to lightly stroke himself as Yoongi starts struggling to tug down his briefs.

It’s too hard, impossible, which only makes Yoongi try harder. He tugs down the middle just enough to expose the first few inches of his crack, then twists his arms to start pulling at the sides. He has to fight for every inch, forcing his arms to move as far as the cuffs will allow. But, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t reach his front, where his underwear is caught on the swell of his cock.

Namjoon’s eyes burn against his skin. He’s hyperaware of how ridiculous he must look, how his every movement impacts Namjoon’s view—bending his arms and forcing his chest out, pivoting his hips and jostling his cock. It’s a full-body endeavor: Twisting and bending, wriggling his legs, bouncing on his heels to get some assistance from gravity, then regretting it when Namjoon laughs at him.

But slowly, slowly he makes progress. He can feel a welcome rush of air against his balls, the crotch of his underwear hanging loosely between his thighs, and if only he could free his cock—

He bends over, squirming, lifting one leg and then the other as if he could somehow catch the fabric with his foot. He can’t—he’s not flexible enough, his balance isn’t good enough, but the movement is finally enough to work the top edge of the elastic free. And then, after that, he’s so close to freedom—to his reward—that he can hardly think about what he looks like anymore.

He squirms and bounces and wiggles his legs until finally, finally, gravity takes over and his briefs drop innocently to the floor.

Yoongi stands there, breathless, triumphant, his heart beating too fast and his arms aching from the effort. He’s too proud of himself to even be embarrassed that he’s naked, that his small, pink cock is on full display.

“Good boy.” Namjoon looks so happy with him that Yoongi’s cock lets out an eager dribble of precome. “You pretty thing. Stand there a moment so I can look at you.”

Yoongi takes the opportunity to catch his breath, concealing it as well as he can with controlled inhales through his nose. His skin tingles pleasantly under the weight of Namjoon’s stare. He turns around when Namjoon tells him to, letting Namjoon look at him from behind, a prickle of unpleasant nerves tugging at his attention.

He adjusts his grip on the bell. The metal is warm now, damp with his sweat, present and real against his palm. He rubs his thumb over the edge of the ribbon. He’s safe. The bell is his voice when he doesn’t have one, but more than that, it’s a physical manifestation of Namjoon’s care for him. Even when Yoongi can’t see him, doesn’t know what he’s doing—too quiet behind him while Yoongi is naked and defenseless—he has a reminder that Namjoon won’t hurt him.

“God, that’s such a nice ass,” Namjoon says finally. “I bet it marks up so pretty. We can find out later. Turn around, baby.”

Yoongi turns to face Namjoon once more, melting at the smile he’s met with.

“Come kneel here,” Namjoon tells him, gesturing between his legs at the throw pillow on the floor. Yoongi goes to it eagerly, dropping to his knees. Namjoon’s fingers card through Yoongi’s hair, firm and reassuring. “Do you know why I’m rewarding you?”

“Because I’m a good boy, Sir.” Yoongi lifts his face toward Namjoon’s touch, and this time Namjoon doesn’t pull back. He cradles Yoongi’s face in his hands, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs. Yoongi closes his eyes in contentment, relaxing into the touch.

“You’re such a good boy,” Namjoon agrees. “But I wouldn’t let you show off just for that. What did you do specifically?”

Yoongi has to think for a moment, working his way back through their scene. His thoughts are already coming a little slower, moving through honey. And Namjoon must know that because he waits patiently, keeping up the gentle petting of Yoongi’s cheekbones.

Then, finally, Yoongi reaches the answer. “Because I used my safeword, Sir.”

“Very good.” A firm kiss is pressed against Yoongi’s forehead before Namjoon starts pulling away, slow and easy. He combs his fingers through Yoongi’s hair with one hand, the other gripping the base of his cock and angling it toward Yoongi’s lips. “Show me what you can do.”

Yoongi leans in, drawn to the glistening head as if by a magnet. He’s close enough now that he can smell it, hot and musky with a hint of something clean. There’s precome beading at the tip, shiny and oh-so-tempting, and Yoongi has no reason to hold back.

He licks it away, sighing to himself at the familiar taste on his tongue, then shifts downward to drag his tongue up the entirety of Namjoon’s length. The twitch he gets in response is enough for a burst of heat to shoot through his veins. The Dom in him wants to take this slow, to reduce Namjoon to a begging mess, but he’s here to serve. He wants to show Namjoon how deep he can take him, wants to let Namjoon fuck his throat to see that he won’t gag, wants Namjoon to be impressed with him, proud of him.

Namjoon holds himself steady as Yoongi wraps his lips around the tip, sucking gently. And Namjoon’s dick has been in a lot of mouths, all hungry for validation and eager to please, so the fact that he lets out a tiny sound just from this is surprising. It’s likely solely for Yoongi’s benefit—a treat, something to excite him and motivate him. Yoongi moans in delight around Namjoon’s cock, soft and muffled, as he slowly starts taking him in deeper.

He feels so good in Yoongi’s mouth, hot and heavy and filling him completely, the underside pulsing against Yoongi’s tongue. His arms twitch in their restraints, his fingers tingling with the urge to touch Namjoon, stroke him in all the places his mouth hasn’t touched yet. The fact that he can’t just makes his mouth work a little more urgently—he pulls off to work his lips down the underside, dropping worshipful kisses on the path back up, massaging his tongue into the sensitive place at the base of the head before sucking Namjoon back in.

“That’s it,” Namjoon says, deep and warm. He strokes Yoongi’s hair with his free hand. “I’m watching—show me.”

The small, often silent part of Yoongi that screams for attention for his accomplishments unfurls like a flower in bloom, opening up toward the warmth. He pulls back just a little, groaning at the weight of Namjoon’s cock dragging over his tongue, letting the buildup of saliva in his mouth spill down Namjoon’s length. He works at the tip for a moment, letting the swell of the head slip in and out of the tight ring of his lips until they’re wet, gliding smooth and easy. Then he slowly, slowly starts sinking back down, groaning when the head nudges at the top of his throat.

He glances up, his gaze trailing up Namjoon’s long torso until their eyes meet, heat flashing in Yoongi’s core. Namjoon is focused on him completely, looking at him like he’s something special, fingers soft and encouraging in Yoongi’s hair. Yoongi draws in a deep, steady breath through his nose, relaxing his throat before he swallows Namjoon deeper.

His eyes burn as the top of his throat clenches around the tip of Namjoon’s cock, saliva flooding his mouth. Namjoon sighs pleasantly, his eyelids fluttering, never once looking away as Yoongi lets him slide back out along the flat of his tongue.

“So good,” Namjoon murmurs as drool dribbles down Yoongi’s chin. He wants Namjoon deeper, wants to be filled up completely—he takes him in again, his throat stretching, relaxing, welcoming him in.

Yoongi loves sucking dick—he fucking loves it. It’s been way too long since he’s let himself have this outside of work, and even then, it’s uncommon. It’s not something that’s ever asked of him when he’s being filmed Dominating someone. It only comes up in more vanilla scenes, when he’s topping more than Domming, but those have been increasingly rare.

And maybe that’s why Namjoon’s dick feels extra good in his mouth, why Yoongi can’t stop himself groaning as he finally swallows him deep—taking him into that place in his throat that makes his eyes roll back and electrifies his skin, flashing hot and cold. His muscles relax, limp and open, his body pulsing with the sheer pleasure of being filled and used.

“Fuck,” Namjoon hisses. His fingers move from Yoongi’s hair, tracing the side of his face down to his neck, feeling for the bulge of his cock. They both groan when he finds it, Yoongi’s throat constricting sensitively in response to the blunt pressure, pinned between Namjoon’s cock and the careful touch of his fingers.

Namjoon’s breath catches, his hips twitching just enough to make Yoongi gag. He swallows hard around Namjoon’s cock, delighting in the small, decidedly un-Domlike whimper that it forces out of Namjoon, before he relaxes his throat and begins pulling back.

Shivers wrack through him as the soft edge of Namjoon’s cockhead slowly drags up the walls of his throat, and he extends his tongue to let Namjoon slip out of his mouth in a wet rush of saliva.

“Jesus.” Namjoon smears the tip of his cock through the mess on Yoongi’s chin, and Yoongi’s mouth falls open obediently even as he gasps to catch his breath. “Again?” Namjoon asks, lifting his eyebrows in surprise, maybe even awe.

Yoongi nods, slow and hazy. He wants to tell Namjoon to fuck his throat, use him, wreck him until Namjoon is satisfied, but all he can focus on are the thick, bubbly strings of saliva pooled around the crown of Namjoon’s cock, trickling their way down the lines of his veins. Yoongi leans in and catches one of the drips with his tongue, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whine escaping his parted lips.

“You really are my little whore, aren’t you?”

Yoongi presses his cheek against the heated skin of Namjoon’s cock, nodding against it, the sticky slide of spit and precome against his face making him feel deliciously filthy and claimed. He sneaks his tongue out to taste the base, right where it disappears into Namjoon’s slacks, the tip of his tongue kissing against the tender skin of his ballsack—just out of reach.

Namjoon’s fingers comb through his hair. “Do you think you earned it?”

Yoongi nods again, even though he’s not sure if he has. But he will; he will earn it. He’ll do even better now that he’s warmed up, take Namjoon even deeper.

“I don’t know,” Namjoon sighs, tugging at a lock of Yoongi’s hair. It doesn’t hurt, it was barely enough to force Yoongi’s head to move, but Yoongi’s hypersensitive skin sings in pleasure anyway. “I let you show off—now you’re just being greedy.”

Yoongi whines in protest, leaning in to nuzzle against Namjoon’s cock again, desperate to feel the silky skin on his lips, his face. The hand in his hair tightens, yanking him back before he can reach, and Yoongi’s breath catches when he feels the wet, heated slap of Namjoon’s cock on one side of his face and then the other.

“Is this what you want? Hm?” Namjoon taps the head of his cock firmly, repeatedly against Yoongi’s eagerly parted lips. Yoongi’s tongue slides out for a taste, groaning at the degrading slap of skin, the teasing taste of precome. “I asked you a question,” Namjoon warns, and Yoongi nods rapidly, strands of hair snapping in Namjoon’s tight hold on his head.

“That’s what I thought.” Namjoon releases him all at once, and Yoongi falls back on his knees, feeling small as Namjoon rises to his feet. Before Yoongi can reorient himself, Namjoon grabs his hair, guiding him up, until Yoongi can feel the heat radiating from Namjoon’s cock against his face and lips. The thick smell of musk and sex makes his mouth water.

“You want it that bad? Then take it.” Namjoon lets go with one hand to angle his cock back into Yoongi’s mouth, hot and heavy, the tip dragging over his palate. Yoongi barely has time to suck in a breath through his nose, bracing himself for what he knows is coming, before Namjoon’s hand returns to his hair.

Yoongi instinctively wants to dip down and suck Namjoon deeper, but Namjoon’s grip is unyielding. He doesn’t have to wait long, though. Namjoon starts pushing in—one slow, deliberate movement. He starts out a little slower than Yoongi expected, rocking in and out with shallow thrusts, the crown of his cock rubbing the top of Yoongi’s throat in a strange sort of massage, prepping him, opening him up. It's a tight tease of a sensation that pushes Yoongi toward some undefinable peak. When he gets there, when one last in-out tickle knocks him over the edge, Yoongi’s throat spasms violently. His body jerks, tears streaming down his cheeks as he gags, saliva flooding his mouth and clinging to Namjoon’s cock in bubbly ropes as Namjoon pulls back.

He adjusts his hold on Yoongi’s head as Yoongi catches his breath through wet coughs, dampening his lips. Then Namjoon’s pushing back in again, wet and easy, curving down the back of Yoongi’s tongue and forcing his way back into his throat, until Yoongi’s nose is pressed against the rough edge of Namjoon’s zipper.

Yoongi gets just a second to relax before Namjoon starts pulling back. And Yoongi lets himself go limp, his jaw slack, gurgling groans punched from his throat as Namjoon starts fucking into him.

“That’s it,” Namjoon pants, his voice fuzzy and far away under the obscene wet sounds he’s forcing from Yoongi’s mouth. “That’s it, that’s it…”

Yoongi can’t feel anything but this. The hot, silky texture of Namjoon’s cock dragging over his tongue, the hands holding him steady. The consistent stretch in his throat—so full he’s given up on swallowing, saliva pouring freely from his mouth. He can only suck in quick breaths each time Namjoon pulls out, exhaling as he shoves back in. But even that’s instinctive, something he could never hope to coordinate on his own, but he doesn’t have to.

It feels like Namjoon’s hold on his head is the only thing keeping him upright, every part of him relaxed and limp and ready to be used, his skin flushed with heat. The only thing he’s still fully aware of is the bell, solid and grounding, his fingers locked around it in a death grip. It’s safety. It’s a promise. A reminder—Yoongi is being used like this, owned and dominated, because he wants it. He’s the one in control here, and Namjoon is doing everything he can to make it good for him.

“Shit, fuck,” Namjoon hisses, slamming into the hilt and holding Yoongi close, hands tight on the back of his head. And Yoongi can feel his cock pulsing in the tight grip of his throat as he comes—so deep Yoongi can’t taste it, doesn’t even have the choice to spit or swallow. He can only take it, and the knowledge makes his own cock pulse in sympathy.

Then, all too soon, Namjoon’s pulling out. Distantly, Yoongi can hear himself whining at the loss, thin and frail—one long, unbroken noise.

“Shh, shh…” Namjoon keeps his hands on him, moving from his hair to gently cradle the base of his skull, thumbs massaging just beneath the backs of his ears. Yoongi feels loose, outside himself, numb and good. It’s hard to focus on Namjoon’s face even as Namjoon kneels down in front of him, but the proximity makes Yoongi’s skin thrum in pleasure.

“You with me?” Namjoon asks. Yoongi lets his eyes slide closed as he manages a languid nod. “Good boy.” It’s so fond, so proud—Namjoon’s lips press firmly against his forehead, real and soft. “Can you show me what you do if you need to stop?”

It takes Yoongi a moment to understand the question, his thoughts moving through molasses, wrapped in cotton. He manages a jerky twitch of his wrist, loosening his fingers to allow the sound of the bell to ring clear.

“So good.” Namjoon lowers his hands, arms wrapped around Yoongi in an almost-hug, and Yoongi lets himself sink against Namjoon’s chest. Behind him, he can feel the cuffs being loosened, warm hands squeezing his wrists once they’re freed.

“Color?” Namjoon prompts softly. “Nod for green, shake your head for yellow, bell for red.”

Yoongi already started nodding before Namjoon finished going through his options, and there’s a breath of a laugh against his neck.

“Eager little thing.” A firm swat against Yoongi’s ass makes him jump, then Namjoon pulls away. “I want to see how red we can get this ass of yours. Get on the couch,” he tells him. “On your knees. Facing the back.”

Yoongi climbs onto the couch with shaking limbs, feeling exposed and nervous as Namjoon gets him bent over, resting his forearms on the back. A pleasant sting from Namjoon’s hand slapping teasingly against his ass makes him tense, toes curling.

“Pretty.” Namjoon swats him again on the other side. “Stay right there for me. If I see you move, this won’t be fun for you.”

Yoongi sucks in a breath, going still as he hears Namjoon move away from him. A brief flare of panic cuts through the haze, and it’s almost enough to make him turn around, to make sure Namjoon isn’t leaving him, but he doesn’t. He tightens his hold on the bell and drops his forehead onto his arms, exhaling shakily, his heart beating in his throat as the sound of Namjoon’s footsteps comes closer.

“Good boy.” Yoongi’s muscles relax at the praise, tensing again seconds later when he feels the tickle of thick, leather tassels teasing down the backs of his calves and the balls of his feet. His hips jerk, his skin sparking to life.

“Please—” Yoongi manages. It’s no more than a breath, barely audible, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know what he’s begging for anyway. He’s right in the sweet spot between excitement and fear, between ‘please yes’ and ‘please don’t,’ his cock hanging hard and heavy beneath him.

He hears the sound first—the thud of the leather tails against his skin like a short burst of heavy rain—then the sensation grips him all at once, a deep ache burning to life across the swell of his ass. The next strike of the flogger comes from the opposite direction, stoking the embers smoldering beneath his skin and forcing out a surprised gasp.

Even with this, Namjoon starts slow, easing Yoongi into it, building up a rhythm. A burst of pain across the backs of his thighs hits with enough impact to jerk Yoongi’s body forward, the fingers of his free hand curling into the couch for support. The displaced air slaps against the back of his balls, a ghost of would-be pain and delicious fear that makes Yoongi cry out, his spine arching.

Namjoon works his way back up to Yoongi’s ass with alternating blows, controlled and precise. The tails feel a little heavier each time, thick and powerful, an ache steadily building until he’s panting.

He can feel it in his bones, each blow making his blood ripple beneath his skin, spreading throughout his body. He can feel the pain of one strike vibrate down through his fingertips, the next one tingling in his mouth. Another sends a burst of electricity through his feet, making his toes curl and his legs tense, the next strike slamming against rigid muscle and knocking the air from his lungs.

Then it changes.

Namjoon brings the flogger down instead of across, catching the untouched curve of the top of his ass, and Yoongi sucks in a wet gasp, his spine straightening in shock. The next one comes from the bottom up, the tips of the tails stinging the tops of his thighs, and Yoongi cries out in shock, in pain, his body jerking away from the impact all while pushing his ass out for more.

“There we go,” Namjoon says, low and pleased, the motion of the flogger never ceasing.

It feels like it’s somehow hitting continuously, the tails coming up from beneath—one side and then the other in a kind of figure-eight. He cries out every time they drift down and tease the sensitive skin of his thighs, jerking his body forward with each powerful blow. And Yoongi can’t stop the noises he’s making, the loud cries and the strangled gasps for breath, his head lying limp on his arms as drool spills freely from his open mouth.

It’s almost too much, almost too much in the very best way. The burning ache throbbing through every inch of his body is slowly giving in to mind-numbing pleasure, building with each strike, coming to a crescendo—only Yoongi doesn’t know what will happen once he gets there. It’s a terrifying thrill, so much white-hot pressure in his body that he thinks he might literally explode, that something inside of him is going to snap and turn him into a screaming, writhing, feral thing.

If he’s still hard, he can’t feel it beneath the blinding throb throughout his entire body. Every inch of skin, every bone, every molecule is electrified and hypersensitive, his muscles spasming from the top of his head through the tips of his toes with each blow from the flogger.

“God, so pretty.” Namjoon’s voice is low and soothing, a cool hand smoothing over the red-hot skin of Yoongi’s ass. But even that’s painful, overwhelming, his body jerking away from the touch as if it was another blow from the flogger.

He’s slapped on one side and then the other, a light sting on top of the deep, pulsing pain, but it’s still enough to draw out a startled sob, for his body to try to squirm away.

A pair of hands grip his hips, firm and careful, and it’s only then that Yoongi realizes the blows from the flogger have stopped. He feels like he’s in a dream, being touched through a layer of clouds as he’s lowered onto the couch. The only thing that’s real is the sharp texture of the couch against the raw nerves in his backside, scratching against him like burning claws. His spine arcs like a bow and he throws his head back with a sound that’s wild and animalistic, somewhere between a scream and a choked sob.

“There you go.” Namjoon’s voice is calm, comforting, a warm weight for Yoongi to hang onto. There’s nothing in the world but this—the feelings rushing through his body, agony turned pleasure, thrumming like a live wire. Namjoon bends over him, kneeling between Yoongi’s legs, one hand smoothing over his chest. “I want to watch you come,” Namjoon tells him, low and secretive, and Yoongi’s hips jerk sharply in the obedient urge to come just from that.

“My good little whore,” Namjoon coos. Then there’s a loud, persistent buzzing coming from the massager wand that seems to have materialized in Namjoon’s free hand. The hand on his chest moves down, smoothing through the sweat and precome smeared on Yoongi’s belly, soft and soothing. Then it presses down hard into his pelvic bone, holding him down as the violently vibrating head of the massager is pressed against the sensitive place between the base of his cock and the top of his balls.

Yoongi sucks in a sharp gasp, high and loud, thrashing against the couch as pleasure rips through him. Namjoon works the wand up and down his length, lingering just a little too long at the base of the head, and Yoongi’s legs collide with Namjoon’s biceps when they try to snap closed. Namjoon shoulders them out of the way, forcing one of Yoongi’s thighs down with an elbow, the other pinned against the back of the couch.

It’s almost like the flogger but worse—better—pleasure so intense it becomes pain, vibrating through his entire body and rattling his bones, the shockwaves carried through his blood and directly into his heart. He’s screaming, sobbing, bucking wildly as his orgasm hits, come spurting out and hitting his own cheek, painting his chest. It feels like it will never end—that he’ll spend the rest of his life like this, pinned beneath Namjoon and falling apart. Namjoon holds the vibrator steadily in place until his body is screaming with oversensitivity, jerking and pulsating, his legs kicking and his hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

Then the intensity lowers, the vibrating head slowly pulls away, and somewhere beneath the sound of his own shrieking sobs and gasps for breath, Yoongi realizes the sound of the buzzing stops.

The part of his brain that isn’t consumed in blinding static is vaguely aware he should be saying something, the words ‘thank you Sir’repeating like a mantra somewhere deep inside him, but he can’t pull them to the surface. He manages a nod because he knows that’s okay, Namjoon won’t be disappointed in him for that—and he’s not.

“Good boy.” It’s soft and far away, but it still fills Yoongi with warmth. Gentle arms wrap around his torso, lifting him, adjusting him. Yoongi’s body feels fake, made of the softest clay, melting into whatever shape pleases Namjoon. “My good, sweet boy.”

He feels lips against his forehead, his temple, each of his cheeks, and the tip of his nose. Fingers comb through his hair, slow and firm, grounding. Everything is hazy, his senses muted, the world around him viewed through a lens that’s just slightly out of focus, blurred at the edges. And it’s safe.

The only thing he knows, the only thing he’s sure of, is that he’s safe.

He’s not sure when they moved but, when he opens his eyes, Yoongi finds himself resting against Namjoon’s chest. Namjoon had shifted at some point to lie back against the couch, holding Yoongi close with an arm around his waist and fingers in his hair, Yoongi’s body settled in the space between his thighs.

Namjoon’s breaths are slow, deep—a long inhale, hold, a slow exhale—his chest rising and falling beneath Yoongi’s cheek. And Yoongi feels himself coming down, subconsciously matching his breathing with Namjoon’s. The feral, frantic energy that had built up inside him—dormant now, but still big and heavy in his lungs—eases out of him with each breath, a purification, until he’s relaxed, empty. Vulnerable.

Anything Namjoon says to him now, anything Namjoon does to him—it will imprint on Yoongi’s soft, fresh heart like a brand. Maybe forever, or at least until the next time he trusts someone enough to use him, take him apart, empty out the contents of his soul and fill him up anew.

It feels like a hundred years have passed when Namjoon’s voice cuts softly through the silence, a gentle vibration against Yoongi’s cheek. “Can you look at me?”

Yoongi shifts, feeling like he’s learning to move for the first time, his body strange and foreign. It’s difficult—everything is just a little heavy, a little tight—and it’s only then that he realizes he’s been wrapped in a blanket, light and cozy, soft as a breath against his bare skin.

Slowly, carefully, he pushes himself up on his elbows so he can see Namjoon’s face—only for his breath to be kicked from his lungs in a shaky rush.

This is the image that will be branded on his heart, the foundation on which he’ll be rebuilt: Namjoon, looking at him as if he’s made of stars. Namjoon’s cheeks are lightly pink, and there’s a warm, contented smile on his face, silver hair fanned out behind him like a halo.

One hand slides up Yoongi’s spine, over the top of the blanket to rest heavy and firm on the back of the collar.

“Thank you,” Namjoon says, “for trusting me.”

When the collar falls away, some part of Yoongi falls, too.

Chapter Text

Time feels strange and hazy, the seconds passing thick and slow like honey, the minutes drizzling too fast. The sweat-dampened skin on the back of his neck went cold the moment the warm leather of the collar fell away. Yoongi is still processing the feeling when he realizes he’s cradled in Namjoon’s arms, still wrapped in the blanket, as Namjoon carries him.

He can almost feel the connection between them like something tangible, a trust so firm and unwavering it’s almost unsettling. Namjoon could carry him into the highway right now and leave him there. He could walk up to the edge of a cliff and let Yoongi fall. Yoongi would believe until the very end that Namjoon had every variable controlled—that the drivers were all actors paid to stop or swerve around him, that there was a comfortable net waiting for him beneath the cliff.

But Namjoon only carries him to the bathroom, and Yoongi is grounded by a familiar smell, lavender mixed with something like vanilla. He blinks his eyes open to see Namjoon gently place a bath bomb in the gradually filling tub. It’s Yoongi’s favorite kind—the one he’d described to Namjoon over the phone what feels like so long ago now. He hadn’t thought to include it in his notes, but Namjoon listened. Remembered.

Yoongi hisses when the sensitive skin of his ass and thighs comes in contact with the warm water, briefly startling him back into reality. It sears this moment into his mind like a snapshot: Namjoon holding onto him, keeping him steady as he slowly eases himself down. There’s a half-empty water bottle on the edge of the tub that Yoongi doesn’t quite remember drinking from, but he knows Namjoon gently coaxed him into swallowing some painkillers for the pain he wasn’t even fully aware of yet.

He feels it now, if only for a moment, his raw nerves awakened by the heat.

The tub is big enough, deep enough, that the water comes up to the tops of Yoongi’s shoulders when he leans back against Namjoon’s bare chest. His heart aches when Namjoon’s arms wind around his waist and pull him in, closing the gap between their bodies. The warm affection that pulses through him isn't real—it can't be. It's the endorphins and the heightened emotions, the rush of being pushed to the limit and brought gently back down, the wonder of being listened to and cared for so completely. He knows that, but that doesn't make the feeling go away.

It takes Yoongi a moment to figure out the press of fabric against his lower back, and it slowly dawns on him that Namjoon kept his underwear on. There’s not much private between them anymore. They’ve seen each other’s porn, and now they’ve played together—Yoongi had Namjoon’s dick in his mouth not half an hour ago—but this is different. They’re not playing anymore, and perhaps more importantly, Namjoon knows that Yoongi is scared to bottom again, promised they wouldn’t go too far.

Namjoon hasn’t pushed him. Yoongi didn’t feel pressured to do anything he didn’t want to do during their scene, but that doesn’t make the small barrier between them any less comforting.

“Was that good for you?” Namjoon asks, his fingers tracing absent patterns on Yoongi’s stomach.

Yoongi nods. He wishes he could tell Namjoon exactly how he’s feeling, the echoes of pleasure still reverberating through his body as if it were a plucked string, but he can’t. The more he tries to force the words out, the deeper they’ll bury themselves inside him. As difficult as it is, he’s learned the best thing he can do for himself is relax and wait. Sometimes, it feels like he has to sneak up on his voice as if it were a stray cat, pretending to ignore it until it forgets to be scared and wanders over on its own.

Namjoon, for his part, doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses Yoongi’s neck, then his cheek. “Me too,” he murmurs. “Are you hurting too badly?”

Now that the shock from the warm water has eased off, he still feels more pleasure than pain, his muscles too relaxed to ache. He shakes his head and angles to nudge his nose against Namjoon’s cheek, bringing up a wet hand to curl his fingers in Namjoon’s hair. Namjoon looks surprised for the briefest moment, but it only takes a second for him to give in, their lips locking together soft and easy.

Yoongi hasn’t kissed anyone like this outside of porn in a long time. The angle makes it awkward, but it’s good. Perfect. It’s too gentle to be anywhere near sexual, the pleasure curling in Yoongi’s chest something else entirely. Safety. Belonging. He never considered bringing BDSM into the real world, but right now, at this moment, he wants Namjoon to own him completely. He wants Namjoon to want him, too. And maybe it’s a good thing Yoongi still can’t speak because he might accidentally say all of these things that he’ll probably regret tomorrow, but right now, it feels real.

Right now, he’s in love. The way their lips meet in soft, clinging pecks, their tongues brushing but never pushing in deep, light and gentle, almost makes it feel like Namjoon loves him, too.

But of course it does. Yoongi asked Namjoon to treat him like he loved him.

He melts into Namjoon’s arms as they kiss; dozes on Namjoon’s shoulder when Namjoon starts washing him off, gently working the softest washcloth over the writing on his chest; curls into Namjoon’s arms when he’s eventually carried to bed, dressed in a shirt that hangs down to his thighs.

The next thing he’s aware of is the feeling of arms around him, fingertips gently skimming the bare skin of his bicep. He’s warm, clean and dry, enveloped in the softest sheets.

His eyelids are too heavy to open, his body too exhausted to move. He syncs his breaths with Namjoon’s and lets himself drift off again.

When the angle of the sun is causing the inside of his eyelids to glow red and Namjoon’s touches become a little more insistent, Yoongi tucks his face against Namjoon’s neck to hide from the light before finally blinking his eyes open.

“What time is it?” Yoongi’s voice comes out rough and strained, shot from screaming.

Namjoon drops a gentle kiss on the top of his head. “Almost two.”

Yoongi hums, his eyelids drooping. They did their scene yesterday because neither of them had anything important to do in the days that followed, so there’s no pressing need to get out of bed. Not yet.

He strokes the pad of his thumb along Namjoon’s collarbone. “How are you doing? You okay?”

Namjoon huffs and secures an arm around Yoongi’s waist, rolling them onto their sides so they can face each other. “Isn’t it my job to ask you that?”

“Dom drop is a thing, you know.” It comes out teasingly, echoing one of the first real things Namjoon said to him, but Yoongi means it. Because Namjoon cared enough to check in with him after his scene with Jimin, to comfort and distract him, and he would have no reason to do that if he hadn’t experienced Dom drop himself.

Namjoon’s expression softens, his smile turning sweet and sincere. “I’m okay. I’m glad you stayed.”

Yoongi smiles at him from across the pillow. “Me too.”

He’s needy as a sub, clingy, but it’s not something he ever got a chance to indulge in much. Actors playing Dominants in his scenes only seem to be doing it to appease their sadism kink, eager to swing a whip around someone submissive and willing. They rarely understand his innate need to cling afterward, to cuddle and be held. It’s not like they’re paid to provide offscreen aftercare in the first place, and even if they were, they’re not always real Doms.

Real Doms, good Doms—nurturing, understanding, and patient like Namjoon—are hard to come by. Yoongi has never had the full, unwavering attention from one who wasn’t paid to give it to him.

“Are you sore anywhere?” Namjoon asks him.

“My back, kind of—between my shoulders.” Yoongi’s sleepy mind takes a moment to assess his body, following the aches and pains from having his arms restrained. “My arms in general, I guess.” He pauses, his attention drifting down to the deep, consistent throbbing from the flogger encompassing the entire area from his waist to his thighs. “My ass, if that wasn’t obvious.”

Namjoon tucks Yoongi’s hair behind his ear. “I’ve been told I give good massages.”

“Are you bragging or offering?” Yoongi turns his face into Namjoon’s touch, letting his eyes drift closed. It takes the teasing bite out of his words, maybe, but Namjoon laughs anyway.

“Both,” he says fondly, pressing a kiss to Yoongi’s forehead. The gentlest excuse for a swat lands on Yoongi’s hip. “Roll over. Take your shirt off if you want.”

Yoongi wiggles out of the shirt because there’s no reason not to, Namjoon helping him ease it over his head, then rolls over onto his front.

“Pretty.” The touch against Yoongi’s ass is soft and careful, but his oversensitized skin flares to life anyway.

Yoongi groans. “Is it bad?”

“Nah.” Namjoon leans away from him to dig in his nightstand. “I mean, I didn’t break the skin or anything. You’re going to have some nice bruises for a while—gonna think of me every time you sit down.”

Yoongi hums and folds his arms in front of him, resting his cheek against them. “Good.”

He feels the thud of a couple of bottles being dropped onto the mattress as Namjoon moves back over to him. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, though,” Namjoon says. There’s a soft rattling sound as the lid of a tube is unscrewed, followed by Namjoon rubbing his hands together. “Just try to relax.”

One hand lands on each of Yoongi’s cheeks, slow and gentle, and pain pulses through him. “Fuck,” Yoongi hisses, turning his head to bury his face against his arms.

“Shh… I know, baby.”

Yoongi grits his teeth as Namjoon carefully works the cream into his skin, his muscles tensing and quivering under every movement of Namjoon’s hands, but it doesn’t take long for the relief to come. The fire in his raw nerves is quenched by soothing cool, the tightness of the lashes left in his skin seeming to melt away. The ache from the impact still lingers deep inside him, resting in his bones where the cream can’t reach, but that’s okay. Yoongi wants it to heal, wants the pain to subside so they can possibly play again—but maybe not yet. He wants to hang onto this for a while, savor it like chocolate melting on his tongue.

“Do you ever think it’s weird,” Namjoon says, slowly working his way down to Yoongi’s thighs, “or—I don’t know—convenient that people like us exist?”

Yoongi peeks an eye open. “What? Pornstars?”

“No, I mean—I don’t know. People who like to claim and people who like to be claimed. I want to mark my territory, and you want to be marked. That sort of thing.”

Yoongi huffs and closes his eyes again, relaxing. “Are you trying to say you want to piss on me? I’ll let you piss on me, Namjoon. I don’t need to be convinced.”

“No!” He sounds adorably scandalized for someone who teased the idea of forcing Yoongi to piss himself just last night. “Come on, you know what I mean. People who like owning someone and people who like being owned. I could mark you up all night, but I’d probably cry if you snapped me with a rubber band.”

Yoongi smiles to himself, weirdly charmed. “You big baby.”

“You really like this?” Namjoon asks, a note of vulnerability in his voice that makes Yoongi’s smile fade, makes him wonder what this is really about. “I guess I can imagine, I don’t know, liking it in the heat of the moment. But you’re going to be sore for days—”

“I like it,” Yoongi interjects. “I really do. I guess it is convenient if you think about it like that. Some people like being hurt, and”—he hesitates, considering his words—“some people are kind enough to indulge them.”

“That’s a very nice way of saying ‘people who like hurting their partners’.”

“If that’s what I meant, I would have said it.” Yoongi peers over his shoulder, but Namjoon isn’t looking at him. He’s frowning down at the scalded red lashes left behind by the flogger. “I wrote my list of weird shit that I’m into, and you actually took the time to read it and find things we could have fun doing together. And it was a lot of fun—I liked it. It was everything I wanted it to be. I was worried it wouldn’t be the same after all this time… and it wasn’t. It was completely different with you. It was better with you.”

Namjoon blinks up at him. “Better?”

Yoongi shrugs and lays his head back down. “Look, I just—I’ve never done this with someone I had a connection with. Like, a relationship outside of work or whatever. You weren’t doing this for a paycheck or because you just get off on hurting people. It felt different.”

“It was different for me, too.” Namjoon starts moving again, picking up another bottle and pumping something into his palm. A warm, herby smell like chamomile tingles Yoongi’s senses. “I didn’t expect it to feel any different, but...” He rubs his hands together and smooths them down Yoongi’s back in a lubricated slide that makes Yoongi shiver.

“I really like you,” Namjoon goes on. “Like—a lot. I like you, and I hurt you. It’s kind of fucked up, isn’t it? When you think about it?”

Yoongi groans as Namjoon starts kneading the muscles in his back, his hands heavy and soothing. It’s so different from Namjoon's touch during their scene, forcefully holding Yoongi’s head in place as he fucked his mouth, hard and unyielding. The low, heavy thud of the flogger against his skin melts away, sweetened by the softness of Namjoon’s touch.

Yoongi has to remind himself to respond to Namjoon. “Not really. I mean—ah—sex hurts. Not in the same way, maybe, but it can be uncomfortable, right? But people do it anyway. And I was never satisfied unless I could still feel it the next day. Like, if I can sit comfortably, I didn’t get the dicking down I deserved.”

Namjoon laughs, soft and warm, and Yoongi feels himself relax right along with it.

“You gave me exactly what I wanted, Namjoon,” Yoongi adds gently. “You would never hurt me, not in a way that I didn’t want.” Yoongi pauses, readjusting himself as Namjoon tugs at his arms, guiding them back toward his sides, hands near his hips. Namjoon starts massaging his palms and fingers, working his way up to the sore spot around his wrists.

“You could have done anything you wanted to me, and I wouldn’t have stopped you. Not at the end,” Yoongi goes on, softer. “I trust you, Namjoon.”

A kiss is pressed against the back of Yoongi’s neck as Namjoon’s hands work from his forearms up to his biceps, leaving muscles that feel like jelly in their wake. “I trust you, too,” Namjoon says against his skin.

A comfortable silence falls over them as Namjoon’s hands work the tension out of his body, the smell of the chamomile massage oil hanging warm and heavy in the air, and Yoongi feels his eyelids getting heavy again.

He must doze off because the next time Namjoon speaks, he’s next to Yoongi on the bed. “You should eat something,” he says. “I would’ve made you breakfast in bed—or lunch, I guess, late lunch in bed—but I can’t really cook, and I didn’t want to leave you alone, so—”

Yoongi presses a clumsy finger against Namjoon’s lips. “Just order something. I don’t care. You could have just done that and let me sleep until—”

“I did,” Namjoon says, smiling against Yoongi’s finger and looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Get up, baby, come on.”

It’s hard enough to move with the aches lingering in Yoongi’s body, but it’s even harder now that Namjoon’s hands have effectively turned him into a puddle on the mattress. It takes some coaxing and promises of another massage before Yoongi finally lets Namjoon guide him to his feet and back into the borrowed shirt.

They pass through the living room on the way to the kitchen, and a glint of sunlight reflecting off something on the couch makes Yoongi pause.

The paper bags rustle behind him as Namjoon starts unpacking the food, and Yoongi wanders over to the couch to pick up the bell. It still feels good in his hand, comforting, warmth tingling from his palm and up through his heart.

He doesn’t need it now. Their scene is over, and they might not ever do another one, but…

He glances over his shoulder to see Namjoon replacing one of the wooden dining chairs with a padded one that's small, white, and far too cute to belong to him. It’s just another facet of the enigma that is Namjoon: The serious Dom with koala pajamas; clumsy and awkward until he holds someone’s safety in the palms of his hands; the hands that can bruise and restrain, then soothe it all away with skilled, practiced touches. The grown man who owns a chair that was likely marketed toward teenage girls, who had a pretty teal ribbon on-hand and the foresight to string a bell onto it for Yoongi.

“Coming?” Namjoon asks. He offers Yoongi a smile when their eyes lock, his hair soft and mussed from sleep, looking cozy and comfortable in his too-short pajama pants.

Yoongi slips the loop of ribbon around his wrist, the bell’s weight settling against his palm. “Yeah.”

Namjoon probably hadn’t intended for Yoongi to keep the bell, but it’s comforting in a way Yoongi can’t quite explain. And he doesn’t have to, because Namjoon doesn’t ask. He only smiles down at Yoongi’s wrist when Yoongi sits down, soft and sweet, and that’s that.

Yoongi keeps the bell on until he goes home, and by the time he gets there, the quiet jingling on his wrist seems so natural that he maybe, accidentally, forgets to take it off.

It’s not at all unexpected, but still somehow a pleasant surprise when Namjoon texts to check in on him the next day. The soreness has fully settled in, a deep ache that makes Yoongi suck in a breath every time he tries to sit down, distributing his weight slowly and carefully. And it’s… good.

Really good.

Namjoon asks if he’s hurting, reminds him to take some painkillers if he hasn’t already, then asks how he’s feeling. ‘You know, emotionally.’

Yoongi has to take a moment to think about that. He knows he doesn’t feel bad; doesn’t feel scared or neglected or abused. But there is something different, something he can’t quite put his finger on. He feels a little too light, a little off balance—like the ground might fall away beneath him, like he’ll simply float away because nothing is tethering him down anymore.

But it’s not bad. At least, it doesn’t seem to be.

Namjoon [12:35]
Can i see you? I think i need to see you

Yoongi angles himself toward the window, catching the light for a halfway decent selfie, but hesitates before sending it.

Yoongi [12:38]
Like a selfie?

Namjoon [12:39]
I wouldn’t mind a selfie :)
But I’m going out for dinner with some friends tonight. If you want to come along.
I mean if you don’t float away haha
I’m sorry that’s not really a joke it’s mildly concerning

Yoongi chews at his thumbnail, swiveling in his desk chair—less because he has work to do and more because it’s the most quality chair he owns. It takes the pressure off the bruises painting his skin, red lashes having turned to angry splotches of purple and blue.

Yoongi knows he’s okay. If nothing else, he knows he’s not experiencing a drop from their scene. He does feel good, almost like he’s forgotten how to live without the weight of his fear holding him down.

But maybe, he thinks, this isn’t entirely about him. There are Namjoon’s feelings and needs to consider. It never even occurred to him to ask what kind of aftercare Namjoon might need. He might need to see that Yoongi is safe and happy, might need reassurance that Yoongi isn’t avoiding him after their scene. Driving his sore ass to Sparks might make it clear to Namjoon that Yoongi isn’t harboring any resentment or fear.

And, well—if that’s what Namjoon needs, Yoongi will do it. Namjoon has done more for him than Yoongi ever could have asked for.

Yoongi [12:42]
Sure. As long as your friends don’t mind.

Namjoon [12:43]
Omg they won’t they’re dying to meet you
Does this mean no selfie? Haha

Yoongi rolls his eyes fondly and switches over to his camera roll, looking over the picture one last time for any imperfections. As if Namjoon hasn’t seen it all already.

Once he sends it, he gets a “you look happy” in response. That leaves him with the rest of the afternoon to wonder if he really is happy. If Namjoon’s friends know of him and want to meet him because of porn or because Namjoon has talked about him.

He doesn’t know which he prefers.

When Yoongi meets Namjoon outside of an Italian restaurant in downtown Sparks, the sky is just transitioning from dusk to dark. There's only the faintest glow of grayish-blue peeking out over the tops of the buildings lining the street. Namjoon is waiting for him outside, tucked beneath the cover of the red fabric awning as if it was raining.

He steps forward when Yoongi approaches, smiling broadly, lifting his hand in a sweet little wave. His free hand is tucked into the pockets of slate gray slacks that remind Yoongi too much of their scene, and the collar of a white button-down shirt peeks out from beneath a thin black sweater stretched tight across his chest. Yoongi suddenly feels like he read Namjoon’s text completely wrong. This can’t be a casual dinner with friends if Namjoon is standing out here waiting for him, looking like absolute boyfriend material.

Objectively speaking. Not a boyfriend for Yoongi, necessarily. Just, like, if you looked up “boyfriend” in the dictionary, Namjoon would make a good example. It’s almost enough to make Yoongi kind of hate him again.

Almost.

Namjoon reaches out his hand, hesitates, then shoves it into his pocket. “Hey. You made it.”

“Of course I did.” He almost wishes he hadn’t because he feels underdressed in his ripped jeans and plain, black t-shirt. He’s not sure if the unbuttoned flannel he threw on overtop makes it look any nicer, but there’s not much he can do about it now.

“Come on.” Namjoon beckons him toward the entrance, tugging open the glass door. He steps aside, holding it open. “Jin and Hoseok are almost here.”

It’s a little better inside. More crowded than Yoongi would ordinarily prefer, but the apparent lack of a formal dress code eases the anxiety that was starting to writhe in his chest. There are a few groups who are making some kind of occasion out of this—dresses and suits, makeup and hair styled to perfection. There are several couples on obvious dates, casual but dressy, and the rest of the patrons seem to be wearing everything from faded t-shirts to branded sports hoodies to business suits.

Fake ivy hangs from wooden lattices suspended from the ceiling, the walls decorated in elegant ironwork, a copy of the Mona Lisa overseeing it all. Because of course it does.

Namjoon approaches the hostess and mentions something about a reservation, and heat climbs up the back of Yoongi’s neck.

He doesn’t belong in a place like this, not with the shocking array of bruises hidden under his jeans. What would people think if they knew? If they knew that this soft, lovely man with the dimpled smile and warm laugh had marked Yoongi this way?

They’d think Namjoon was cruel and abusive. They’d think his smile was fake, a carefully constructed mask to hide the cruelty underneath. And Yoongi—even if Yoongi could tell them it was consensual, that they both wanted this, well… Then he’d be crazy, too. A pair of sick deviants who need help, counseling, prayer—whatever.

Yoongi used to worry about people recognizing him from porn. He would walk into a public place and wonder how many people have seen him at his most vulnerable, messy and degraded. But that fear balanced itself out quickly. If anyone recognized him, they’d have to admit to watching some really fucking weird gay porn before they could even start to ridicule Yoongi.

This feels different, somehow. Personal. Something Yoongi wants to protect from judgment and prying eyes. He doesn’t want anyone to think of Namjoon as anything less than the clumsy, gentle giant he is.

The hostess grabs a stack of menus, smiling at them as if they’re just a couple of normal people, oblivious to the things Namjoon did to him, and leads them to their table.

They end up right beneath the Mona Lisa, nestled against the wall. Namjoon actually pulls out Yoongi’s chair for him, hovering nearby as Yoongi delicately lowers himself in a way that won’t show how sore he is. He bites his lip to hold back a grimace as a low, deep pain pulses up his spine.

“There,” Namjoon murmurs, his fingers skirting along the back of Yoongi’s shoulders as he lets go of the chair, and Yoongi can’t suppress his shiver.

Fuck.

Why does this seem kind of like a date?

Why is some part of Yoongi kind of disappointed that it’s not? Any second now, Namjoon’s friends will show up, and any opportunity for Yoongi to talk freely with Namjoon will be gone.

“Is this okay?” Namjoon asks once he takes his seat on the other side of the table.

Yoongi’s not sure what he’s referring to specifically—the restaurant, the seating arrangement, the placement of their table in general—but it doesn’t matter. The answer is still the same. “It’s fine.”

He can’t quite make himself meet Namjoon’s eyes. It would have been easier if Namjoon had sat down next to him instead. That way, Yoongi wouldn’t have to see the way that stupid sweater hugs Namjoon’s chest and shoulders every time Yoongi tries to look at him.

He might be too anxious to eat, but he still slips on his glasses and flips open the menu just to give himself something to do. God, and all the menu items are listed under Italian names, as if his accented English doesn’t make him self-conscious enough. He’s going to be reduced to pointing at what he wants like a fucking kid, and suddenly he just… wants to leave. He can still feel Namjoon’s eyes on him, his skin prickling under the attention, and he flips to the next page with clammy fingers.

Namjoon clears his throat awkwardly. “I… Did I do something wrong?” He sounds so nervous, so small, that Yoongi suddenly remembers why he’s here.

This isn’t a date. This is nothing to be nervous about.

It’s merely a check-in, a necessary follow-up after their scene, to ensure they’re both walking away from it in the right headspace. He lays down his menu, finally meeting Namjoon’s eyes over the low candle in the middle of the table. The flame glints in Namjoon’s irises, orange streaked through warm brown, sharpening the angles of his face.

His scenes almost always seem to be shot in low light, making his features look dark and dangerous, highlighting his narrow dragon eyes. Right now, though… Right now, he just looks nervous, vulnerable.

“Of course not,” Yoongi answers. All at once, it seems easier to just be honest and leave nothing up for misinterpretation. He doesn’t want Namjoon to feel guilty for anything that happened during their scene, not when it was everything Yoongi ever could have wanted. “I just—I feel underdressed. I don’t know how to pronounce any of this”—he taps his fingers against the menu—“and it’s crowded, and I… It’s not you. I promise it’s not you.”

“You look perfect,” Namjoon tells him, soft and sincere, and Yoongi’s heart twists. “I’m sorry, I should have thought about”—he gestures vaguely at their surroundings—“we can go somewhere else if you need to. If this is too much. Is it too much?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t be able to sit, like, there.” He nods toward one of the tables in the middle of the room, enough space for people to walk around it on all four sides, constantly surrounded. “But this is okay. Corners are better, but I can do this.” It’s half for Namjoon’s benefit and half an affirmation. He hasn’t had much reason to go and sit down in a nice restaurant since the breakup, so it’s a little unfamiliar, a little uncomfortable, but… “I conquered my fear of restaurants years ago.”

“Fear?” Namjoon repeats, frowning. “Of restaurants specifically, or just, like, the crowds?”

“Both? I guess?” Yoongi bites at his cuticles, his eyes drifting toward the door. It feels like too much to explain. The way he hates eating in public, the feeling of everyone watching him. Hates having to tell someone what he wants and worry about what they think of him, or worse, not ordering what he wants at all because it’s listed under a stupid or hard-to-pronounce name on the menu. All on top of his fear of being trapped, of crowds, feeling unsafe and defenseless. He finally settles with, “It’s complicated.”

“But it’s better now? We can leave. I swear it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s better,” Yoongi says. ‘Better’ is very different from ‘gone entirely’ but leaving now would be backsliding. It took a lot of work and therapy to get to this point; it was one of the things he and his first counselor had addressed. Nearly ten years ago now. Jesus.

“I would walk in and place a to-go order,” Yoongi goes on. “That’s how it started. Just to get experience going inside, but knowing I would be able to leave. I used to just take it home or eat in my car or something, but then I’d find places where I could eat outside. And once I was comfortable with that, I just... For a long time, I could only sit inside if I was right next to the door so it felt like I could escape.” He huffs. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid at all,” Namjoon says quickly. “It’s something to be proud of. And I… Maybe it’s not easy for you to talk about, but I appreciate you telling me.” He offers Yoongi a smile, one that Yoongi can’t help but return.

“You must know all of my fears at this point,” Yoongi says, just to take the focus off of himself. “I don’t know any of yours.”

Namjoon lowers his eyes, shrugging. “I don’t know if I have a lot of tangible fears. Rejection? I guess everyone’s afraid of that.” He goes quiet for a moment and Yoongi can almost see him thinking, wracking his brain for something, anything. Like he doesn’t want Yoongi to look irrational for being afraid of everything.

Even though Yoongi already knows that.

“I’m afraid of giving up control, I think,” Namjoon says finally, but it comes out in a way that sounds like he didn’t just think of it on the spot. “I tried to sub once and I had to use my safeword, like, immediately. He put a pair of handcuffs on me, and I panicked.”

“Could it be that you just don’t like being restrained?”

“I mean, I found out very quickly that I don’t like it.” Namjoon's lips tug into a halfhearted smile. “But I think—I mean, I’ve had control over so few things in my life. Handing the little bit of control that I do have to someone else was too much for me.”

Yoongi hums in thought, picking at the thick plastic coating on the menu for something to do with his hands. He doesn’t really know anything about Namjoon, does he? All he has are a handful of assumptions that are proven wrong again and again, peppered with little fragments like this: he can’t cook or make a decent cup of coffee. He cares about the environment, fears rejection, and, apparently, his life feels out of control. He might like koalas if his pajamas are anything to go by, and he writes commercial jingles. He might have mentioned counseling, but Yoongi’s brain is too fuzzy to remember the details.

That’s it.

That’s all Yoongi has.

Aside from the knowledge that Namjoon is patient, kind—kinder than anyone Yoongi has ever met. He’s soft and warm and attentive. If he judges Yoongi for any of his weird shit, he doesn’t show it.

“Can I ask you something?” Even now, while reeling Yoongi back in from the depths of his own mind, Namjoon’s voice is hesitant, gentle. As if he’s the weird one for interrupting, even though Yoongi was zoning out in the middle of their conversation.

Yoongi blinks rapidly to force himself to focus, bringing his eyes up to Namjoon’s face. “Of course.”

“I was wondering…” Namjoon pauses, dampening his lips. His gaze settles somewhere in the vicinity of Yoongi’s shoulder. “You and Jimin. You’re close.”

Yoongi tilts his head, waiting for the question. When it doesn’t come, he says, “Of course we are.”

Namjoon nods. “He lives in Arizona, right?”

“He does,” Yoongi says cautiously. “Why?”

“No reason. Just…” Namjoon lowers his eyes to the table, shrugging. “You just seem to have a good relationship despite the long distance. You guys are really—”

“Namjoonie!” A bright, pleasant voice makes Yoongi look up, only for a new wave of self-conscious dread to wash over him.

The hostess had just escorted two men to their table—and they must be Namjoon’s friends, judging by their smiles—but what the fuck.

One of them looks like an actual movie star, tall and broad with eyes that sparkle even in the low lighting. His entire face seems to glow with a smile that’s so eager and genuine that Yoongi can’t help but return it when he stands to shake the man’s hand.

Namjoon introduces him as Jin, his best friend since college, which means the other man is…

“My husband, Hoseok,” Jin says. He gestures for the man behind him to step forward, and if Yoongi wasn’t already against the wall, he would have taken a step back just at Hoseok’s sheer presence.

If Jin looks like a movie star, Hoseok looks like a supermodel. He's tall and angular with a smile shaped like a perfect heart. His cropped, platinum hair screams for attention while looking perfectly suited for him all at once. An oversized pair of pink-tinted glasses draws attention to his face while his outfit looks like it costs more than Yoongi’s car. It’s all tied together with a thin, elegant chain connected to a simple, silver O-ring resting in the hollow of his neck.

They remind Yoongi of a pair of birds—peacocks, maybe. One is brightly colored and meant to be seen, beautiful and intimidating; the other in more natural colors, soft grays and browns, letting the other shine.

Hoseok is friendly enough. His smile is wide and beautiful, and he offers a perky, “Hi there!” after Jin’s introduction. But he doesn’t shake Yoongi’s hand when it’s offered, so Yoongi just kind of sinks back into his chair like an ugly toad. It’s an odd relief to know they’re married to each other, but the thought of Namjoon spending his time with people who look like this and having any sort of attraction toward Yoongi is absurd.

More absurd than the thought of Namjoon being attracted to Yoongi at all, period.

They treat each other with the same formality as Namjoon did with Yoongi. Hoseok pulls out Jin’s chair for him, making sure he’s settled before taking his own seat next to Yoongi. And maybe they’re all just better than him, raised differently, a type of politeness ingrained into them that Yoongi never had to learn.

He stares down at his menu, unseeing, trying to ignore the shame that niggles at the back of his skull.

He’s not special. He’s never been special. How many times does he have to remind himself? How many times does he have to have it shoved in his face before he understands?

It’s not like it matters, though—not really. His connection with Namjoon is superficial, temporary. It will fade in time, just like the bruises on his skin.

“So,” Jin says, smiling brightly, “you must be the Yoongi we’ve heard so much about.”

Yoongi casts a hesitant glance at Namjoon. He’s not looking back, face hidden behind his menu. “Maybe. What have you heard?”

“Good things. Don’t worry.” Jin's tone is so sincere that Yoongi can't help but believe him.

“They know we’re… um. Colleagues,” Namjoon says awkwardly, peeking over the top of the menu to meet Yoongi’s eyes.

Colleagues. That’s all they are, all they’ll ever be. Everything else was fake, exaggerated for their scene. Namjoon is a good Dom, a perfect one as far as Yoongi is concerned. Patient and considerate and so very gentle. But that’s just… him being a Dom. He would treat any sub that way.

“They know you’ve saved me from death by mug cookie. Stuff like that.” There’s something in Namjoon’s eyes, soft and urgent, that tells Yoongi everything he needs to know: Namjoon didn’t share anything personal, anything serious. Jin and Hoseok probably don’t even know they did a scene together.

Yoongi pushes out a breath, smiling. “I’m not sure how he’s alive, honestly.”

The conversation starts to flow after that, slow and easy, and it gets even easier after they order a bottle of wine. Jin orders a glass of water for Hoseok, who keeps Jin’s wine topped off through dinner despite never drinking any himself.

It’s not that it matters, really. It’s just that Hoseok isn’t contributing much to the conversation. He didn’t even speak to the waiter when he came by to take their orders. Jin ordered for him, picking something out from his own menu, and it was only then that Yoongi noticed Hoseok hadn’t looked over the options at all.

It’s not until they place their dessert orders—Jin choosing for Hoseok once more—that the pieces fall into place. Jin and Hoseok are the married Dom/sub friends Namjoon had mentioned.

And Yoongi, cozy and relaxed from the wine, can’t stop himself from blurting, “You’re a sub.”

Hoseok straightens like he’s surprised, like he didn’t expect to be acknowledged. “Oh—um. Yes. I am,” he says. His surprise seems to melt away quickly, replaced by a friendly smile. “What gave it away?”

It’s small things: Hoseok not speaking to them until given permission, pulling out Jin’s chair for him and keeping his glass full, letting Jin decide what he eats and drinks.

All of that seems too specific to mention, so Yoongi only shrugs in response. “Lucky guess.”

If Jin and Hoseok are Namjoon’s married Dom/sub friends, then Hoseok is the sub Namjoon used to play with. The one who went nonverbal in subspace, the one Namjoon learned how to accommodate—taking the skills he learned from Hoseok to change Yoongi’s life and make him feel safe.

Yoongi looks down at the bell on his wrist. Did Namjoon give one to Hoseok, too? He must have. Yoongi’s not sure why it makes something in him sour in misplaced jealousy, so small and inexperienced and unattractive compared to Hoseok.

Even as a submissive, Hoseok seems confident in a way Yoongi could never be, completely comfortable in his own skin. His attention is full and unwavering, his eyes locked on Yoongi’s, and it’s not long before Yoongi has to look away. His eyes land on Hoseok’s necklace.

“That’s pretty,” he says, just for the sake of it. Just to make it seem like he looked down for a reason other than avoiding Hoseok’s eyes.

“Oh!” Hoseok smiles, lifting his fingers to trace around the edge of the silver ring. “Thank you. It’s my day collar.”

Yoongi should probably know what that means. It’s probably just as obvious, just as much common sense, as the bell—but he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and he feels too stupid to ask.

“It’s like…” Namjoon leans in, lowering his voice to keep from being overheard. His eyes are soft in the warm orange light of the candle, the flame dancing in his irises. The shape of his eyes, the darkness of them, makes for a look more intimidating than Hoseok’s, but it’s still comforting, familiar. Yoongi doesn’t want to look away. “Like a collar during a scene,” he whispers the last word, biting his lip nervously, as if anyone would understand what he was referring to without context.

Jin laughs, loud and squeaky, and leans back in his chair. “Why don’t we talk like this?” he asks, and it takes Yoongi a moment to realize he’s speaking in Korean. He looks at Yoongi kindly. “Do you understand?”

Yoongi’s brain scrambles to catch up, and when it does, he responds in Korean, “Yes. It’s been a while, though.”

“Good.” Hoseok nods, smiling. “It’ll be easier to talk about kink this way.”

Yoongi ducks his head and bites back a laugh. It will be easier—it suddenly seems highly unlikely that there’s another group that speaks fluent Korean in this little Italian restaurant in the middle of Sparks.

When he looks up, he finds Namjoon’s eyes already trained on him, looking at him with something like awe. They’ve never spoken to each other in anything other than English, and Yoongi suddenly feels silly for it. Namjoon’s accent is subtle but noticeably there, and he can’t help but wonder if Namjoon is thinking the same thing about him. If he has the same feeling of belonging, mixed with the embarrassment for being utterly clueless all this time, softened with relief.

“So,” Hoseok continues in Korean, “I wear a real collar during our scenes, but it’s not really acceptable to wear in public, so…” he trails off, shrugging. “I have this instead. So I can still have a symbol of my commitment as a slave even when we’re not at home.”

“Oh.” Yoongi looks down, tracing his finger over the handle of his fork. He’s probably making himself look stupid—acting in BDSM porn but being so uneducated about it in the real world—but he’s curious. “Does it even matter when you’re not doing a scene?”

Hoseok shrugs. “It depends on the couple, I guess. It matters to us. I’m his slave whether we’re doing a scene or not—it’s a dynamic we both decided on. I like serving him.”

It’s hard for Yoongi to imagine. Part of him thinks that if this is what it means to be submissive outside of porn, he’s not interested. He doesn’t mind being pushed around in the bedroom. The thought of never having an equal relationship, always being treated as lesser, a constant life of servitude—it makes some angry, independent side of him buck in resistance. He’d spit in Namjoon’s wine if he was expected to keep his glass topped off. Probably deck him if Namjoon tried to punish him for it.

But it’s the thought of Namjoon that makes him pause. Namjoon’s a Dominant in real life—just like Jin—but he couldn’t be more different.

If Hoseok pulling out Jin’s chair for him was an act of servitude, then Namjoon doing the same for Yoongi was an act of a caregiver. What’s considered submissive for Hoseok is almost a small act of dominance when it comes from Namjoon.

And Yoongi is… kind of okay with that.

Really okay.

If Hoseok is treated like a slave, Yoongi feels like he’s treated as something precious and fragile. Like a pet, almost. Something small, cherished, but inherently unequal.

Or—no.

That’s not right at all.

Because Namjoon doesn’t own him. They’re not in a relationship—they’re still learning how to be friends. What Yoongi is misconstruing for dominance outside their scene is just Namjoon being polite. No more, no less.

Still, if Yoongi had to choose, he thinks he wouldn’t mind belonging to someone if it meant being treated the way Namjoon treats him.

There’s clearly more than one right way to be a Dom if the difference between Namjoon and Jin is anything to go by. Maybe it’s also okay if Yoongi doesn’t want to consent to be someone’s slave. Maybe it’s okay if he’s a little bratty, a little spoiled, if he wants to be taken care of and protected. Maybe it’s okay if he only wants to give up control some of the time, if he’s too independent to have a dynamic like Jin and Hoseok do.

As long as everyone in the relationship is consenting and happy, maybe it’s none of it matters at all.

He lets himself wonder, just for a moment, what kind of sub Namjoon is looking for.

The words slip out before he can stop them. “You used to sub for Namjoon, right?” he asks Hoseok. Across from him, Namjoon sputters into his drink.

Hoseok cocks his head, studying Yoongi’s face. “I did a few times. It was just for fun—nothing serious.”

Namjoon got into porn because he had trouble finding people to casually play with. Is it because his old hookup got married? Is Yoongi literally sitting next to the reason Namjoon entered his life in the first place?

“Really!” Hoseok insists, smiling. “It wasn’t serious at all. We weren’t super compatible.” He shoots a teasing grin at Namjoon, who is frantically wiping the wine off of his sweater. “You were a little too gentle for me.” To Yoongi, he adds, “I always told him he’d make a good Daddy, but he’s not really into that.”

The thought of Namjoon being gentle—too gentle—with Hoseok makes something twist in Yoongi’s chest. He can watch Namjoon’s porn, so it’s not like he’s jealous—he has no reason to be—but Namjoon is softer with him than the subs he films with. Knowing Namjoon can easily offer that same softness to someone else makes what he does for Yoongi seem less real.

It isn’t real. Yoongi knows that. But at least he hasn’t had to see evidence of it.

“You’re a submissive, aren’t you, Yoongi?” Jin asks, and Yoongi is as relieved about the change of subject as he is terrified.

No matter how he answers, it will feel like a lie. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, sucking in a breath when a hot throb of pain pulses from the bruises. Under the table, the toe of Namjoon’s shoe brushes against his ankle. It’s so gentle that it has to be an accident, but when Yoongi looks up, Namjoon is watching him with something soft and reassuring in his eyes.

“I used to be,” Yoongi answers, because that much is true. “In porn. Outside of that, I never really… I bought a pair of handcuffs a couple of years ago,” he confesses. He’s not fully sure why he’s even telling them. They’ll think he’s an imposter no matter what; admitting to buying cheap, novelty handcuffs isn’t going to do him any favors. Still, he downs the rest of his wine and presses on. “Like, the stupid pink fuzzy ones, you know? My ex never even took them out of the package. So… It never transitioned into the real world.”

The touch against his ankle feels a little closer, a little more solid.

“Your ex…” Namjoon repeats, frowning, and it occurs to Yoongi that Namjoon doesn’t know any of this. “You didn’t break up because of the handcuffs, did you?” He seems to catch himself at the last minute, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “Sorry, that’s not—”

“It’s fine.” Yoongi looks down, wiping his palms on his jeans. He doesn’t know if he feels comforted or exposed at the thought of Namjoon trying to figure him out and pinpoint what went wrong.

It would be too easy if Yoongi was afraid of subbing because of a shitty ex, wouldn’t it? He got laughed at, dumped for being a freak, and the shame of it all pushed him away from subbing entirely. He can see why Namjoon might think that—if he’s thinking about it at all.

Either way, he doesn’t want to look that weak.

“The handcuffs had nothing to do with it,” Yoongi says. “He didn’t like me doing porn, so. I left him.”

There. At least now he doesn’t look like the victim.

“What?” Hoseok asks, frowning. “Did you get into it while you were dating him?”

Yoongi shakes his head, a bitter smile pulling at his lips. “No. We met when I was starting out—he was into it, thought it was sexy. It was only after we were together that he suddenly decided it was a problem.”

It went on longer than it should have. The heavy arm around his shoulder, the low whisper in his ear:

“I hate that everyone in this room has seen you naked.”

“How many of these guys have fucked you?”

“What’s the point in dating you if nothing about you is mine?”

As if he hadn’t had Yoongi’s heart from the very beginning. As if owning Yoongi’s body was the only thing that really mattered.

Yoongi pushes out a breath, adjusting his wrist to catch the bell against his palm. “Everyone wants to date a pornstar,” he says. The words are just a little more difficult to form, catching and clinging to his lungs, “until they’re actually dating a pornstar. You get used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Namjoon says. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

It really doesn’t matter.

Yoongi doesn’t care about his ex. Distance only made him realize what a mistake their relationship was and how much worse it could have been. All he cares about are the words spoken to him at his lowest point, coming from someone who was supposed to love him: “Porn ruins people.”

Later, when Namjoon walks Yoongi out to his car, he hesitates by the door and says, “Wait right here, don’t leave yet—okay?”

Yoongi just wants to go home at this point. He’s exceeded his social threshold and will need at least a week alone to recover, but… Namjoon doesn’t really wear him down the way other people do. So he sits there awkwardly in the dark parking lot, smoothing his palms over the steering wheel and taking comfort in the familiar texture against his skin.

It’s only a minute or two before Namjoon reappears, gently tapping at the passenger window, and Yoongi leans across to open the door.

“Can I—?” Namjoon starts, only for Yoongi to roll his eyes fondly and say, “Just get in.”

Then Namjoon is just—there. Right there in Yoongi’s car, too big and too close, the gentle smell of his cologne filling the small space. He closes the door behind him, settling into the seat with a small backpack on his lap.

“I don’t really know how to set up an excuse for this, so I’m just gonna…” Namjoon unzips his bag and pulls out a deep red cup that he rolls awkwardly between his hands. “Um. It reminded me of you. Your hair. So.”

Namjoon holds out the cup, and it’s not until Yoongi takes it that he notices the familiar weight and texture. “Oh my god.” He turns it over and tugs off the lid, just to look. Just to give himself something to do with his hands while his chest is squirming strangely. “Are you giving me my own pretentious cup? Is that what this is?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, sounding entirely too fond, which does nothing to help Yoongi’s squirmy chest situation. “It’s biodegradable. But, like, it lasts a really long time, too, so you’ll get a lot of use out of it before you have to replace it. It’s dishwasher safe and everything. I guess you know that.”

Yoongi does. He’s heard Namjoon proudly explain all of this more times than he’d ever care to remember. “Where do you even get these? Do they sponsor you or something?”

“No. I mean, I wish they did. I have to order them online.”

Oh. Well then. That just makes this even worse.

Because it’s not like Namjoon was sent one for free. It’s not like he was just doing his ecofriendly grocery shopping at his favorite ecofriendly store and stumbled upon a cup that just so happens to match Yoongi’s hair. He went online and sought it out, ordered it specifically.

If they really last that long, he had no reason to be shopping for a new one in the first place.

“Thank you,” Yoongi manages, because he doesn’t think he can say much else. There’s a sarcastic comment in him somewhere, but between the fluttering in his chest and the nerves making his tongue heavy and his throat tight, he can’t find the strength to voice it.

“You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to,” Namjoon adds.

Yoongi nods rapidly, tucking the mug into the cup holder. He can’t even complain about it being too big because it fits fucking perfectly.

“Thank you,” Yoongi repeats. He’s already said it, so it feels like it comes out a little easier, requires a little less thought. No one steals Yoongi’s voice away as quickly and easily as Namjoon does, and Yoongi’s annoyed by the thought that it might be psychosomatic—he knows it’s okay to let go in Namjoon’s presence, to feel what he’s feeling, because even if he can’t speak, Namjoon will get it.

Or maybe… Maybe something about Namjoon just makes him nervous. Hence the squirmy chest. And the sweaty palms. And the fact that he feels like he can’t quite look Namjoon in the eyes, instead watching his own hands curl around the steering wheel, knuckles standing out in prominent knobs of tense white.

“I should…” Yoongi jerks his head vaguely in the direction of the road.

“Okay.” Namjoon’s voice is soft, easy. He reaches out slightly, his index finger brushing against Yoongi’s in a way that sends tingles up Yoongi’s arm—only to then yank his hand back as if it was unintentional. “Um… Thanks for coming out tonight,” Namjoon adds, and Yoongi can’t help but look at him. “It helps to see you. To see that you’re okay, we’re okay—not that there’s a ‘we’, you know. It’s just—”

“I know.” He gets it. The fear of being too much, too forceful, worrying subs fear him outside their scenes. That everyone will one day notice how sick he is and abandon him for getting off on inflicting pain.

Yoongi forces one hand off the steering wheel and lets it fall on top of Namjoon’s, where it had retreated onto the armrest. His skin is warm under Yoongi’s cold fingers. “I’m okay,” Yoongi says. “I like you better now, if anything.”

Namjoon breathes out a laugh, his eyes fixed on their hands. Slowly, as if to keep from scaring Yoongi away, he turns his hand over, and the tips of his fingers kiss Yoongi’s palm, gentle sparks of contact.

“Yeah?” Namjoon lifts his eyes to meet Yoongi’s, his irises infinite black in the dim light. Yoongi can’t remember why he used to think Namjoon’s features were harsh; he can’t make himself see Namjoon like that anymore, can’t go back to the mindset that looked at him all wrong. Every part of Namjoon is soft—from the small curve of his nose to the shape of his lips, to the dark line of eyelashes like a single delicate stroke of ink from an artist’s brush.

“Yeah.” It’s barely a breath—he wouldn’t have been sure if Namjoon had heard him if it weren’t for the way the corners of Namjoon’s lips twitched into a smile.

“Yoongi, can I…” Namjoon shifts in his seat, leaning more of his weight onto the armrest and putting their faces closer. And Yoongi can feel it—the weightlessness in his chest, the feeling of free-falling—only it’s not scary when he trusts Namjoon will catch him.

And Namjoon looks so nervous suddenly, his brows lowered in a sad tilt, his eyes dropping back down to their hands—still barely touching. He shifts his thumb to close it over the tops of Yoongi’s fingers in the gentlest hold, the tip of his thumb slowly tracing over the edges of Yoongi’s ragged cuticles.

Yoongi almost yanks his hand away. He doesn’t want Namjoon to see the worst parts of him, to touch the things that are ugly and broken. But Namjoon doesn’t look disgusted or even surprised—just achingly fond.

If Namjoon asks to kiss him, Yoongi will say yes.

He can feel the word waiting on his tongue, the anticipation of touch tingling on his lips.

“I don’t know if this is too forward, or… too soon, maybe,” Namjoon goes on. He dampens his lips, a hint of a narrow pink tongue, before he seems to physically force his head back up to meet Yoongi’s eyes again.

Yes.

Every part of Yoongi is screaming yes.

He finds himself leaning a little bit closer, just a fraction of a movement, as if drawn by a magnet. He wants to be close to Namjoon—that’s maybe the weirdest part of this. It was a feeling that was forced to the front of his mind in the aftermath of their scene, with Namjoon’s arms so sturdy and safe around him, but Yoongi thinks it started long before that.

The airport, maybe. That might have been the first time Namjoon’s presence seemed big and comforting and safe, rather than awkward and weirdly intimidating. It was the first time Yoongi can remember wanting to be close, being drawn in despite himself, hiding in the shelter of Namjoon’s sheer presence and knowing he’ll be safe.

“But I just want to ask you…”

Yes.

“Would you maybe—I mean, if you want…”

Yes.

Namjoon slides his hand away, a chill rushing over Yoongi’s fingers as Namjoon wipes his palms off on his slacks. “I’m open to doing another scene if you think it would help.”

Oh.

The warmth rushes out of Yoongi’s chest with a brief twist of disappointment. In the embers, a new heat sparks to life.

Another scene with Namjoon—dominating him, owning him. Treating him like an object, a possession, special and cared for. One that Namjoon knows intimately, familiar with every crack, every weak spot, making sure not to push too hard and filling the missing pieces with gold.

Yes.

It’s still yes. And maybe, with Namjoon, it always will be.

“So.” There’s a teasing lilt to Jimin’s tone that makes Yoongi avoid his eyes, distracting himself by plucking the cigarette from his lips and taking a sip of coffee. It’s been almost a month since his first scene with Namjoon. Barely a week since their second scene, when Namjoon had him bound and alternated between ice cubes and hot wax until Yoongi was screaming.

Now, back in Vegas, Yoongi hardly cares about his porn shoots that are scheduled for the week. All he really wants to think about is how soon he’ll be able to play with Namjoon again.

“So,” Jimin repeats. Yoongi doesn’t even have to look at him to know his smile is growing.

The coffee goes down in a hard lump, hot in the back of Yoongi’s throat. “Do you need something?”

He risks a glance at Jimin, who’s leaning against the wall on the back porch with his arms across his chest, holding a cigarette aloft between two fingers, as coy and glamorous as an old Hollywood star. Jimin cocks his head, grinning. “You and Namjoon?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yoongi says. He inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs until it burns.

“Come on.” Jimin nudges him with his elbow. “Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly taken an interest in ecofriendly coffee cups.”

Yoongi blinks down at the cup in his hand. “Oh. No—he gave it to me. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal,” Jimin scoffs. He flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette. “He’s obsessed with those stupid cups. Giving one to you seems, like, a love confession.”

Warmth curls through Yoongi’s chest, comfortable and healing as the steam from his coffee. “It’s not like that,” he says, tracing his thumb along the rim of the cup. “He just… bought it because it matches my hair.”

“Oh my god,” Jimin groans, smiling wide. “That’s worse. You realize that’s worse, right?”

Yoongi just shrugs and takes another drink. It’s easier than admitting he thought the same thing.

“First, you stopped hating him, like, overnight,” Jimin goes on. “And now I find out he bought you one of his weird little cups because it matches your hair? What am I supposed to think?”

Yoongi shrugs. “I don’t know how your mind works.”

“Admit it.” Jimin points his cigarette at Yoongi accusingly. “You totally fucked.”

The smile drops off Yoongi’s face like a lead weight. They haven’t revisited the possibility of penetration. Part of Yoongi worries that Namjoon will never be able to fuck him, no matter how bad Yoongi might want him to. “We didn’t fuck,” he says stiffly.

“Oh.” The teasing smugness fades in an instant. “I just thought—I guess I thought wrong. He just seems really into you, and it seems like you’re into him, so I just—”

“He’s not into me,” Yoongi says. He can’t bring himself to bother with the second half of Jimin’s statement when the first part is so abjectly wrong.

Jimin rolls his eyes. “You’re all he talks about. Every time he and I are here together, he’s going on about some funny thing you said, or… I don’t know. I’ll ask him if he had a good day, and then he’ll start telling me about your day? ‘Well, Yoongi said this,’ ‘Yoongi did that.’ God, and something about a bracelet. This, I guess.” Jimin leans over and taps the bell on Yoongi’s wrist. He tugs lightly on the ribbon, rotating it to reveal the messy knot securing the two ends. “Yeah, that looks like his handiwork. What’s that about?”

Yoongi bites at his lip. Namjoon obviously hasn’t shared what they’ve been up to. Is that for Yoongi’s sake? Would Namjoon be embarrassed or disappointed if Yoongi wanted to share?

Does he want to share?

This thing—Namjoon helping him—seems special. Something that only exists in the privacy of Namjoon’s home, thin and delicate as a bubble, and it will pop if it’s examined too closely.

He doesn’t have to tell Jimin everything, but maybe he can at least share this. “He thought it would help me.” He pauses, dampening his lips. “Like… an alternative to a safe word.”

“Oh.” Jimin seems to think it over for a second, lifting his cigarette to his lips. “Oh! I get it. That’s really sweet of him.”

Yoongi looks down, kicking a pebble off the porch. “Yep.”

The silence that falls over them is heavy, awkward. He can hear the sizzle from the end of Jimin’s cigarette as he inhales, the soft click of his lips around the filter.

“Does he know?” Jimin asks finally. Yoongi doesn’t have to ask what he’s referring to.

“Not exactly.”

They fall quiet again. It’s a little less awkward somehow, the tension eased, but there’s anxiety creeping along the back of Yoongi’s neck. It’s the usual mix of shame and anger, one half of him longing to hide the worst parts of himself, while the other half wants to lash out and use his jagged edges like knives.

Namjoon knows even less than Jimin does, which isn’t much at all. As far as Jimin knows, there was an accident on set. Yoongi had gotten hurt and didn’t trust anyone else with his safety after that. That’s all anyone needs to know, really. What’s the point of filling in the details? At best, it’s a cry for attention. At worst, Jimin will never look at him the same way again.

His eyes will always be full of pity, full of caution. Just like Taehyung’s. Yoongi doesn’t want that—not from Namjoon, not from Jimin. Not from anyone.

Jimin clears his throat softly. “You really trust him, though, don’t you?”

Yoongi can only nod in response. Saying it out loud would make it too real, too close to cracking open the swirling mass of emotions inside him. Of course he trusts Namjoon, that much is obvious. But he doesn’t think that’s what Jimin was really asking.

“You could talk to him,” Jimin says, “if you wanted to. He would listen.”

Yoongi lets out a smoky sigh. He knows Namjoon would listen—that’s not the problem. It’s just that it’s a miracle that Namjoon doesn’t see him as melodramatic. Attention-starved. Yoongi doesn’t want to press his luck.

He likes what they have. Namjoon makes him feel safe in a way no one ever has before. He’s always kept his distance and respected boundaries—mental and physical—before he knew anything about Yoongi at all. He isn’t careful with him because Yoongi’s damaged; he’s careful because Namjoon is respectful, kind. Namjoon treats everyone with the same quiet patience, close but not touching, because maybe he understands that people don’t always look broken.

“There’s no point,” Yoongi says finally.

Jimin laces his arm through Yoongi’s, shifting closer to hug Yoongi’s bicep against his chest, his chin resting lightly on Yoongi’s shoulder.

“You’re allowed to be happy, you know,” he says quietly, like a secret. Yoongi’s throat tightens. “You’re allowed to have this.”

Yoongi angles his head, exhaling smoke away from Jimin’s face. “I don’t even know what this is.”

It’s a lie. Maybe they both know it. Jimin doesn’t respond with words, just drops a soft kiss on Yoongi’s shoulder.

The truth is that he wants Namjoon in whatever capacity he can have him. He wants Namjoon’s terrible coffee and awkward jokes. He wants ill-timed speeches about the environment and burned mug cookies in the middle of the night. He wants Namjoon’s hands on his waist and lips on his forehead.

He wants a collar around his neck, locked in place by Namjoon’s hands. A nondescript, delicate one like Hoseok’s—one he can wear every day, looped around him like an embrace, keeping him safe and grounded even when Namjoon isn’t around.

Yoongi lowers his cigarette, the bell tinkling gently around his wrist.

The truth is: It doesn’t matter what Yoongi wants because it will always be out of reach. Simply wanting something doesn’t mean he’s allowed to have it.

“He’ll get tired of me. The shit I’ve put him through already—”

“I don’t think he minds,” Jimin interjects. “He still looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Yoongi sighs, tilting his head back to rest it against the sun-warmed siding of the house. “You don’t get it. He just… likes taking care of subs. He’s made it pretty fucking clear that anything he does for me is what he would do for any sub he plays with.”

Jimin’s grip on his arm tightens for a moment, a gentle squeeze. “You’re doing scenes with him?”

Fuck.

There’s really no harm in Jimin knowing, is there? Taehyung already knows. It’s not like it changes anything. It’s not like it means anything.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Yoongi says, “you’re wrong. He’s just… he’s helping me. It’s just for practice. So I can eventually take sub roles again.”

Jimin tilts his head to press his cheek against Yoongi’s shoulder, and Yoongi can feel his sigh swell against him. “Oh, Yoongi…”

The sliding back door grinds open a few feet away, catching and squeaking, and Yoongi glances over to see Namjoon pop his head out.

“Here you guys are—oh.” Namjoon glances away awkwardly, and Yoongi can’t remember the last time Namjoon looked this uncomfortable. Like it’s his first day at the house all over again, like he can’t fathom why people who fuck for a living might be physically affectionate. “Sorry, I just got back from my shoot, and no one was around, so… I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jimin flicks the remains of his cigarette aside. “I was just about to go in, actually.” He presses a kiss to Yoongi’s cheek before walking away, squeezing past Namjoon to get inside.

The door rattles closed, and Yoongi looks up at the sky, the moon faintly visible in a sea of bright, crystal blue. He lifts his cigarette to his mouth, the world gone silent. He waits for the sound of footsteps, for a presence beside him, but it never comes. When he finally makes himself look, he finds that he’s completely alone.

If some small, stupid part of Yoongi thought Namjoon would join him in Jimin’s place, no one has to know. Yoongi can deal with the shame of being wrong by himself.

Chapter Text

The key is in a little potted plant next to the front door, exactly where Namjoon said it would be. Not exactly the best hiding place, maybe, but it’s just temporary.

Just for Yoongi.

It feels strange to let himself into Namjoon’s house, especially when he finds the living room empty. It’s already been cleared out, the furniture pushed back in preparation for their scene, and the blood prickles beneath Yoongi’s skin.

Locking the door behind him, he leaves the key on the kitchen table as instructed.

He feels a little shaky and outside of himself as he stands in the middle of Namjoon’s empty living room and removes his clothes. Despite there being no one around, no cameras, he somehow feels more exposed than ever, like he's stripping down in public.

They planned this. Yoongi knows what Namjoon expects of him, but he still can’t shake the writhing, anxious feeling that Namjoon will be shocked and offended to find him here like this.

Naked aside from the bell around his wrist, he lowers himself to the rug on shaking legs until he’s on his knees, fingers twisted together in his lap.

All that’s left to do now is wait.

It takes a while for his brain to quiet down, for his senses to stop stretching out to every entrance to the living room, waiting for movement, for a sound, some sign of life. To stop feeling like he’s about to be caught doing something he shouldn’t, to relax into this moment.

Nothing is expected of him now. All he has to do is wait for Namjoon. He’ll show up sooner or later—this is his home, after all—and worrying about it won’t bring him here any faster.

And with that thought, Yoongi pushes through a mental barrier, a tangible feeling of resistance melting out of him as the tension drains from his shoulders.

For the first time in years, his mind is quiet. The constant river of fear and worry slows to a meandering creek, tapering off and melting into the grass until it fades into nothing.

He doesn’t hear Namjoon come in, doesn’t feel his presence until Namjoon kneels down in front of him. He tilts Yoongi’s head gently, two fingers under his chin, and Yoongi’s breath hitches in his lungs.

It’s an odd feeling—one of relief and excitement and awe: a drop of water against a dry tongue, a puppy excited to see its master, and a devout worshipper visited by a deity—joy and reverence. But Yoongi stays still, looks into Namjoon’s eyes patiently, and Namjoon smiles at him.

“Pretty,” he murmurs. His hand drifts away from Yoongi’s chin. “Keep your head up.”

Namjoon probably didn’t even have to tell him. Yoongi feels like clay, loose and malleable, ready to hold any position Namjoon puts him in.

The collar seems to come out of nowhere, materializing in Namjoon’s hands. He reaches around Yoongi’s shoulders in an almost hug as he secures the collar around his neck, the press of leather against his skin making Yoongi’s eyes close in relief.

“Can you tell me your safewords?” Namjoon asks as he pulls away, his hands settling warm and firm on Yoongi’s shoulders.

Yoongi probably could. He hasn’t sunk too deep yet, so he could push his way to the surface and break through the ice, like shaking away the lingering grasp of a dream—but he doesn’t want to. He wants to sink deeper, lose himself in this, in Namjoon, in the quiet and calm.

It feels natural to ring the bell instead, the movement of his wrist loose and languid.

“Good boy.” Gentle fingers comb through Yoongi’s hair, warm pleasure curling through his veins like smoke. Namjoon shifts back, and his thigh muscles bulge with the movement, the fabric of his slacks straining as he gets up. “You can stand up.”

Yoongi carefully pushes himself to his feet, and suddenly their bodies are a breath apart, Yoongi’s naked skin tingling at the proximity. Namjoon drops a gentle kiss on Yoongi’s forehead and squeezes his hips gently. “Go sit down over there”—he nods toward a chair in the corner—“and wait for me.”

Yoongi sucks in a shallow breath, nodding.

He knows where this is going. He’s had plenty of time to mentally prepare for it, to back out of it—he can still back out of it if he wants to. But he doesn’t. He wants to get over this, wants to feel safe again. Honestly, he just wants to be fucked again. Even if his body and his anxiety recoil at the thought, even if touching himself in that way is an instant turn-off, some deep, primal part of him still wants it. Misses it.

But first. First, there’s this. Letting go and getting used to the feeling of being exposed to his Dom. Forgetting himself and his fears, learning to relax again.

They’re taking it slow, as if Yoongi’s never been fucked before. As if it’s something they need to work up to, train for. And Yoongi would be fine, he thinks, if he could stop thinking. The realization that he’s thinking right now just pisses him off and brings him back to himself a little. He squirms in the chair, suddenly aware of it against his skin.

It’s not uncomfortable—thin padding keeps it from being unbearable—but it’s heavy and sturdy, with a straight back and rigid armrests.

Namjoon approaches him holding a long strap with padded leather loops on each end, and Yoongi’s heart skips in his chest.

“I don’t want to play with you right now,” Namjoon tells him. “You’re going to wait right here until I’m ready for you, understand?”

Yoongi nods, wondering if Namjoon can see his heart pounding beneath his skin. If he can, he doesn’t say so. He only looks at Yoongi for a moment longer—narrow, gentle eyes searching Yoongi’s—before finally responding with a little nod of his own. “Good.”

A firm hand lifts Yoongi’s ankle until it's pushed back and open, draped over one of the armrests. Yoongi shifts himself to accommodate the new position, angling back, his eyelids fluttering as Namjoon slides the loop up his leg. It comes to rest firmly just above his knee, and Namjoon guides the strap around the back of the chair, using the excess length to tie Yoongi’s wrists behind it. He finishes it off by securing Yoongi’s leg on the other side, leaving him open, immobile, when the strap is tightened.

Namjoon steps back, looking over his work. As his eyes trail slowly over Yoongi’s body, Yoongi can see the darkness in them, the hunger. Somehow, even like this, Namjoon is looking at him like he wants him. Goosebumps tingle across Yoongi’s skin in a wave, prickling down his arms and tightening his nipples. His thighs tense in the restraints, but he can’t move—can’t close himself off with his legs, his wrists pinned together behind the chair.

He feels so small like this, held open beneath Namjoon, Namjoon staring down at him openly. His soft cock twitches between his legs, and there’s nothing Yoongi can do to hide it, heat rushing through him at Namjoon’s indulgent smirk.

“Let me hear you ring the bell,” Namjoon tells him. Yoongi loosens his fingers, letting it ring. “Good. Aside from that, I don’t want to hear you. Got it?”

Yoongi nods, his dry throat clicking as he swallows. His eyes land on the gag in Namjoon’s hands, long fingers tracing around the red silicone ball. Yoongi doesn’t need it—he won’t be able to talk regardless—but Namjoon still nudges it against his lips until Yoongi lets it in.

It’s not about keeping him quiet. He knows that as he feels Namjoon’s hands guiding the strap around his head, securing it in place. It’s another thing to make him feel helpless, to take away any illusion of free choice or decision-making.

When Yoongi had turned down the idea of a blindfold, they had discussed turning the chair to face the wall as an alternative. But Yoongi just…

He couldn’t.

He needs to see Namjoon. He needs to be able to look at him, to reassure himself at any moment that Namjoon is the person he’s with. That he’s safe with someone who will take care of him, listen to him—even when he can’t speak.

And Namjoon hadn’t pushed. He only added blindfolds to Yoongi’s ever-growing list of limits, and they moved on.

It’s easy to say no to Namjoon. At any moment, for any reason—even for no reason at all. And that’s why they can do this.

Namjoon doesn’t blindfold him once the gag is in place. All he does is gently press a pair of plugs into Yoongi’s ears—first the left, then the right—the world filling with the staticky sound of the foam expanding in his ears, and then…

Silence.

Thick, heavy silence. His own breath is a loud rush of wind inside him, his heartbeat a quick and steady pulse against the plugs. And Namjoon walks away from him with silent steps, already seeming so far away from him, in another world entirely.

Yoongi rolls his shoulders, twisting in the restraints, testing the boundaries. They hold tight, keeping him locked in place, and his own little gurgle of frustration behind the gag seems so loud. His head falls back against the chair with a dull thud that he can hear more than he feels, and he lets his eyes unfocus as he stares up at the ceiling.

He can’t move.

He can’t speak.

He can’t hear.

All he can do is let go—just because doing anything else isn’t an option.

He angles his head and watches Namjoon a little at first, just for reassurance. Namjoon disappears down the hallway for a bit, returning in more comfortable-looking clothes. He mills around in the kitchen, which catches Yoongi’s attention—it would be just his luck for Namjoon to start a kitchen fire while Yoongi is fucking naked and tied to a chair, wouldn’t it? But all he ends up doing is adding water to a plastic bowl of instant ramen and putting it in the microwave.

And it all feels so strange. So far away. Like Yoongi somehow shouldn’t be here seeing this, like he’s the one who’s intruding, despite their positions. Namjoon is casual, relaxed, probably going through his usual after-work routine: getting comfortable and having dinner before settling in on the couch with a book. All while Yoongi is just—there. Just another fixture in the room, another book on the shelf, an object waiting to be picked up and used.

And at some point, everything just… stops. He hasn’t closed his eyes, but he doesn’t remember what he’s seeing, or maybe he just doesn’t care. If he’s still bound, he can’t feel it. He’s in a world that’s silent, comfortable. From somewhere outside himself, he can see himself still strapped to the chair, his head tilted back and drool running down his neck, his jaw slack around the gag.

He can also see Namjoon from this detached vantage point. He’s not really reading anymore—if he ever had been at all. The book is still held up near his face, and every now and then he’ll turn the page, but his eyes are sharp and focused on Yoongi, watching intently.

When Namjoon places the book aside and approaches Yoongi with silent steps, his mouth forms the shape of words that Yoongi will never hear. He takes Yoongi’s chin in his hand, angling his head to look at his face, and his touch is the only thing in the world that feels real. The only thing Yoongi can feel at all. A hand reaching through a dense fog to guide him home.

Namjoon reaches behind him to release the gag, his fingers catching and tugging individual strands of hair, lighting up like sparks against Yoongi’s skin. There’s not a single muscle in Yoongi’s body that resists when Namjoon readjusts the angle of his head, when two fingers push deep into his mouth and slide along the back of his tongue. And it’s too real and a dream all at once. Yoongi can see it as if it’s happening to someone else, Namjoon’s dark fingers sliding in and out of a pair of pink lips, glistening with saliva. But he can feel it, too, more than he’s ever felt anything—the lines of Namjoon’s fingerprints, the gentle flutter of a heartbeat beneath his skin.

Namjoon tugs his fingers out and wipes the excess saliva on Yoongi’s cheek, Yoongi’s mouth ready and waiting for his cock. Yoongi can’t hear anything beneath the muffled sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, loud and steady, his breath catching and shuddering, echoing inside his skull.

He doesn’t know when Namjoon pushed down his pants enough to free his cock. The only thing he’s aware of is that it’s there, the wet tip tracing the circle of his lips slowly, teasingly, leaving behind the soft, bitter taste of precome.

The fingers in his hair curl, tightening their hold and sending embers sizzling over the sensitive skin of Yoongi’s scalp, trickling down the back of his neck. Then Namjoon’s cock is shoved into his mouth with one sharp thrust, Yoongi’s nose buried against trimmed pubic hairs as Namjoon holds him in place.

And Yoongi feels so perfectly full. He groans, his eyelids fluttering, delighting in the stretch in his throat. His entire body is relaxed and prepared for this. He couldn’t fight Namjoon now, even unintentionally. He can’t breathe, and he doesn’t fucking care—that’s the best part. He can float here, in this soft, relaxed space where he’s safe and cared for, without worrying about what happens next.

Namjoon pulls back at the perfect moment, right when the ignored, quiet part of Yoongi’s brain shoots off a single signal flare in the darkness—what if he’s in danger for real? What if he never breathes again? And he coughs wetly around Namjoon’s cock, sucking in ragged breaths, cutting off abruptly when Namjoon forces himself into Yoongi’s throat again.

Each time Namjoon cuts off his air supply, the sparks of anxiety only make him float higher. The pounding in his head and ache in his throat press past the boundary of pain, turning into something numb and pleasurable. He’s dizzy, his mind empty, his body fuzzy and wispy at the edges like he might dissipate entirely, like a drop of ink in the ocean.

Namjoon pulls back for a moment, his cock slipping out of Yoongi’s mouth in a wet rush, bobbing with the movement and smearing spit and precome against his cheek. Namjoon cradles his head in firm hands, angling him so that their eyes meet, and what Yoongi sees punches a broken sob from his chest.

The warm glow from the overhead light casts Namjoon’s skin in gold, the edges of his silver hair gleaming white. He looks like an angel, a god—beautiful and dangerous, with the power to create and destroy. But it’s the overwhelming love in his eyes that makes Yoongi want to fall to his knees and worship him. His eyes search Yoongi’s face, checking in, monitoring him, without saying a word. A heavy thumb smooths across Yoongi’s lower lip, wiping away the mess, and Yoongi is shaking, crying, tears pooling in the spaces between Namjoon’s fingers.

When Namjoon feeds him his cock again, Yoongi takes it with a grateful groan. The heat of it fills the empty coolness of his mouth, the thick, heavy musk against his tongue familiar and so very human.

Namjoon pulls him in close, forces his cock deep one last time, and pleasure explodes beneath Yoongi’s skin. He’s held in place as pressure builds in his skull, his lungs aching with emptiness, and his throat aching with the fullness, the stretch. And it’s right when he gags, his shoulders hitching and his throat squeezing tight, that Namjoon starts fucking him.

It’s hard, fast, relentless. Each thrust forces his dick deeper and deeper until his balls are slapping against Yoongi’s chin. And Yoongi has no choice but to take it, to let Namjoon use him for his own pleasure. Every movement blends together until it feels like Yoongi has always been here, like nothing exists outside this moment.

When Namjoon pulls out again, leaving Yoongi’s throat aching and empty, it’s to stroke himself to completion over Yoongi’s face. Warm spurts of come paint his cheeks and lips, dripping down onto his tongue. The look of pleasure on Namjoon’s face goes straight to Yoongi’s core. A burst of euphoria sparkles through his veins as if it was his own orgasm, an echo of Namjoon’s.

The next thing Yoongi is fully aware of is a gentle touch on the sides of his head, the lightest tapping against the plugs in his ears. His eyes flutter open, and it’s only then that he realizes they’d been closed. That he’d been in an isolated bubble of pleasure, dark and silent, unaware of his surroundings. It could have been seconds ago that Namjoon came on him, but it could have just as easily been hours, days. The muffled, puffy tapping sound is grounding, comforting, reeling him back in until he can focus on Namjoon’s face.

Once he has Yoongi’s attention, Namjoon slowly removes the plugs to let the sound back in. Not that there’s much to hear. There’s the white noise of the air conditioner, the distant hum from the refrigerator, a dog barking somewhere far away.

“Hey,” Namjoon says quietly, stroking Yoongi’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Even that causes warm pleasure to blossom beneath Yoongi’s skin, his back arching, pulling slightly against the restraints. “Are you with me?”

Yoongi manages a nod, his head too heavy and too light all at once, filled with clouds.

“Show me what you do if you need to stop.”

The bell rings before Yoongi has a chance to think about it. He doesn’t have to think—he knows exactly what to do.

Namjoon’s lips press against his forehead. “Good boy,” he murmurs against Yoongi’s skin. He punctuates it with a flurry of little kisses that make Yoongi whine in pleasure, his fingers combing through Yoongi’s hair. “My good, smart boy.”

He straightens, grabbing the back of the chair with one hand. “Come on. I’m not done with you yet.” The chair is angled back as Namjoon drags it across the floor, the living room blurring past in a distant haze.

When the chair comes to a stop, it’s still angled back. Yoongi doesn’t realize Namjoon has let go until he’s back in front of the chair, and Yoongi distantly wonders if he’s falling in slow motion, seconds away from colliding with the floor, unable to catch himself.

He doesn’t care. Some part of him is aware that this should matter, but it just… doesn’t. Namjoon won’t let anything happen to him.

Namjoon’s hands slide up the underside of Yoongi’s thighs in a slow trail of sparks, and Yoongi shivers against his restraints.

“So pretty,” Namjoon murmurs. “Such a good boy for me. Maybe I should reward you—would you like that?”

Yoongi bites his lip, nodding. He’ll take whatever Namjoon gives him, pleasure or pain. As long as Namjoon is touching him, looking at him, nothing else matters.

“Shh…” Namjoon wipes his cheeks with his thumbs, and it’s only then that Yoongi realizes that he’s still crying, his chest aching around each hitching, shuddering breath. “I’ve got you. I’m going to make you feel so good.”

His hands slide from Yoongi’s cheeks, past the collar, tracing the lines of his clavicle before moving away. There’s a quiet click as Namjoon opens a bottle, and every nerve in Yoongi’s body seems to jump at the sound, only to relax again as Namjoon leans in and kisses him. Then their mouths slide together, slow and soft, lingering pecks that make Yoongi’s lips tingle. When two fingers slide over Yoongi’s nipple, it’s with a glide of lube that makes his hips twitch and his breath catch.

Namjoon’s free hand moves to touch him on the other side, little sparks of pleasure curling through him. Namjoon works the hardened buds between his fingers—pinching tugs that border on painful, followed by a teasing brush of fingers in a slippery sweet caress. Each sensation coils like a spring in his chest, leaving him panting against Namjoon’s lips.

He can hardly remember the last time he was under someone like this, letting them touch him, unafraid.

Namjoon is barely doing anything. His kisses are languid and deep. The tip of his tongue teases the sensitive places on the roof of Yoongi’s mouth, pulling back for lingering touches of lips that spark like embers. He hasn’t stopped touching Yoongi’s nipples, rolling his fingertips over them in a way that sends tingles pulsing through Yoongi’s core, making his dick ache and his hips buck.

It’s too much and not enough all at once, a tickle of a sensation that’s as frustrating as it is satisfying. Namjoon builds a persistent, relentless rhythm, unchanging right up until the moment Yoongi thinks something inside him might snap. Then the touches slow, the rotation of his fingers switch, rolling in the opposite direction, or he’ll stop the motion entirely in favor of sharp pinches that make Yoongi’s back arch.

And Yoongi can barely kiss him back anymore, his lips parted under Namjoon’s as he lets out shuddering, gasping breaths, pleasure pooling beneath his tongue. Namjoon pulls back enough to let his lips brush teasingly over Yoongi’s, little sparks of touch that match the burning need building in his chest.

It reminds him of the feeling of the flogger: Never hitting too hard, right in the sweet spot, but building into something unbearable. Something that made Yoongi want to claw out of his bindings and explode out of his own skin.

And he’s right there now, on that edge, his fingertips digging hard into his palms, his legs tensing. His body wants to draw away, twisting futilely in the chair, his legs kicking because he can’t take it anymore. It’s annoying, an itch he can’t scratch, a water droplet sliding too slowly down his spine, the downy barb of a feather stuck to his lip.

Somewhere along the way, his gasps for breath turned into panting moans, weak and wavering, and he can hear them as if from far away. Namjoon kisses the corner of his lips, his cheek, drifting to trace his mouth over the curve of Yoongi’s ear, hot breath sparking beneath his skin.

And Yoongi breaks.

It hits all at once, a physical impact that makes Yoongi’s body jerk as if he’d been hit by lightning. Pleasure pulses through him in a way he’s never felt before, a way that seems like it will never end. He feels his entire body rocking with it like a ship tossed in a stormy sea, convulsing, held in place only by the straps keeping him bound to the chair. And Namjoon’s fingers keep working him even as Namjoon breathes praises against his ear, telling him how good he is, how pretty, how perfect.

And he’s only vaguely aware of how hard his dick is, aching with need, and it hardly seems possible to feel this unfulfilled and this overstimulated all at once, his spine curling to draw away from Namjoon’s fingers just to give himself a moment to catch his breath, a moment to calm down, because everything is so much—

Another wave strikes unexpectedly, and he cries out, the chair creaking with the pressure on the straps. His head falls back, landing on something soft and supportive, keeping it from angling too far back. Namjoon starts kissing down his neck instead, fluttering brushes of pleasure that make Yoongi sob.

And slowly, slowly, Namjoon sinks to his knees in front of the chair, leaving kisses all the way down. Precome dribbles down the slope of Yoongi’s body in a torturously slow tickle, making him whine and twist against the chair as if he could escape the feeling.

“Needy little thing,” Namjoon says, pulling back. “Look at you—what a mess.” He trails his fingers through the fluid on Yoongi’s stomach, sighing. “What am I going to do with you?”

He doesn’t wait for Yoongi to respond—not that Yoongi would be able to anyway. Namjoon trails his finger, still wet with precome and lube, down the length of Yoongi’s perineum.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Namjoon tells him, and it’s only then that Yoongi realizes his eyes had fluttered closed at the touch. “I want you to remember where you are. Who you’re with.”

Yoongi’s breath catches when Namjoon’s finger strokes over his hole, light and careful, a tease of a touch that makes Yoongi shiver.

Namjoon’s eyes are watching Yoongi’s intently, his gaze heavy and overwhelming in the best way. “Color?”

Yoongi can only nod, letting out a shaky breath as Namjoon traces his rim with a little more pressure, never breaching him. And Yoongi almost, almost wants him to. Almost wants Namjoon to just push in now, while Yoongi’s body is too consumed with pleasure to think of the repercussions, while he can’t remember why this scares him.

He’d beg if he could, beg Namjoon to fuck him and ruin him and deal with the consequences later.

“Good boy.” Namjoon kisses his inner thigh, then kisses him again a little higher up. “Just relax. Just like this.”

And then Namjoon’s thumbs are on either side of his hole, spreading him, and Namjoon leans in and blows a gentle stream of air against the sensitive skin.

Yoongi feels himself clench, the muscles in his thighs jumping. That’s all the warning he gets before Namjoon licks a stripe from his tailbone to the base of his balls, his tongue swiping teasingly over Yoongi’s hole.

Yoongi bites his lip to hold back a groan, his arms tensing against the restraints. He can’t even remember the last time he’s been eaten out. His boyfriend hadn’t been into it. When Yoongi was subbing, his face was usually forced into someone else’s ass. Having his cheeks held open by Namjoon’s firm, gentle hands, Namjoon’s eyes locked on his as he slowly dips down to press a kiss against Yoongi’s hole—it’s unfamiliar. It makes his skin erupt in goosebumps, heat flushing up his torso, a strangled groan muffled somewhere in his throat.

“Shh.” It’s just a breath against his spit-dampened skin, but even that’s enough for a full-body shudder to wrack Yoongi’s body.

His lips brush against Yoongi’s hole again—a kiss, a caress. Each gentle movement blends together into something strong and soft and good, radiating through Yoongi’s oversensitized body. He can hardly tell when Namjoon switches from his lips to his tongue and back again. He’s only vaguely aware every now and then of something prodding gently at his hole, warm and wet, tracing over the cinched muscles, retreating right when Yoongi starts to feel himself open up.

He can hear himself moaning distantly, his voice carried out softly on each heavy breath, unable to hold it in. And through it all is Namjoon, here and present and real, the only thing keeping Yoongi grounded. His hands are warm on Yoongi’s cheeks, stroking his skin. His lips click quietly with each press against Yoongi’s hole, the sound of his tongue soft and obscene, almost lost under the sound of Namjoon’s own quiet moans vibrating against Yoongi’s rim.

Namjoon’s hand shifts, tracing along the jut of his hip bone before brushing against his cock. And it’s too much, pleasure bursting up Yoongi’s spine and down through his toes, his back arching and his hips rocking in a feeble attempt to ride Namjoon’s face. And Namjoon just… lets him. Just buries his face in deeper, nuzzling from side to side to get in close. His tongue presses firmly against Yoongi’s hole as Yoongi grinds against him as best he can with his limited movement, chasing his own pleasure.

God, but it’s not enough. Yoongi’s shoulders and hips ache from the strain as he tries to work his body between Namjoon’s face and the too-loose hold on his cock, a frustrated whine working its way out of him. He wants more, needs more. He needs Namjoon to squeeze his cock and jerk him hard; he needs Namjoon’s tongue to press inside him fully, to push beyond the teasing pressure where he’s open and empty.

And he’s so fucking close he wants to cry. Wants to rip himself apart. He’s breathing so hard his chest hurts and his throat is dry and he can feel the lines of drool drying around his gaping mouth.

Then Namjoon tightens his grip on Yoongi’s cock, stroking it hard and fast, his teeth grazing gently over Yoongi’s rim—and Yoongi comes.

Explosively. Blindingly. Shooting hard over his own torso, bucking uncontrollably, writhing in the restraints. Namjoon jerks him through it, pleasure sparking and exploding through Yoongi’s core. He can feel that Namjoon has sat up, can feel Namjoon’s eyes on him, even if he can’t force his own eyes open yet.

It takes him a moment to notice the finger stroking him where Namjoon’s mouth had been, gentle and easy, circling the edge and rubbing gently along the clenched opening. And before Yoongi can decide how he feels, before he can clear through the ringing in his ears to decide if he’s afraid, Namjoon pulls his hand away.

“So good,” he murmurs, leaning in to press gentle kisses along Yoongi’s cheekbone. “My good baby.”

All Yoongi can do is focus on breathing, one shuddering breath after another. A sheen of sweat plasters his hair to the base of his neck, heat trapped beneath the curve of his spine, lingering sparks flickering through his nerves.

And he feels so good, so fucking good. Wrecked and sated and exhausted, his heart still racing in his chest a million miles away, his soul floating in a haze of bliss.

He’s vaguely aware of the strap around him loosening, his legs lowered with careful hands, those same hands reaching behind him to guide his arms back to the front of the chair. He moves like molasses, melting into Namjoon’s arms.

“Good boy.” Namjoon’s fingers comb through Yoongi’s hair, an arm around Yoongi’s waist holding him tight and close. He feels Namjoon bury his face in his hair, feels the gentle swell of Namjoon’s chest as Namjoon breathes him in. Yoongi finds himself taking a deep breath to match—even as it breaks, hitches and wavers on the way in.

“That’s it, breathe with me,” Namjoon says softly. And Yoongi does, because at this moment, he would do anything if Namjoon asked it of him. Breathing together is easy, automatic, something Yoongi couldn’t resist even if he’d wanted to. This is only their third scene together, but they do this every time. Just taking a moment to be present together, for Namjoon to slowly start guiding Yoongi back toward reality.

It’s a comfort in and of itself, an added layer of peace and safety that Yoongi craves.

The collar stays on even when Namjoon draws a bath for them, after a lifetime has passed. And maybe Namjoon can tell that Yoongi will fall apart if he takes it away now. As the water fills the tub and Yoongi sits on top of the closed toilet, wrapped in a blanket, he can’t stop touching it. His fingers trace the edge of the leather, taking in every slight dip between the stitches. It’s thick, heavy, a layer of armor that Yoongi isn’t ready to lose.

Around his wrist, he still wears the bell, but that’s not something Namjoon ever takes from him. Usually, Yoongi slips it off when he’s ready, but… he’s not. He’s not ready.

Not because he feels bad, not because anything hurts. He just feels fragile, turned inside out, held together by a fraying thread. It’s okay for Namjoon to let go of him for a few minutes as long as Yoongi has the bell, because it feels almost as real and comfortable as Namjoon’s arms around him.

The familiar sizzle of the bath bomb comes next, filling the air with its warm, grounding fragrance. And that’s when Namjoon looks back at him, smiling when their eyes meet, his skin bright and vibrant against the backdrop of sparkling blue and pink water.

“You’re beautiful,” Namjoon says, breathless, a warm hand rising to cradle Yoongi’s cheek. Yoongi nuzzles into his touch, kissing his palm. He wishes he could say the same—Namjoon deserves to hear it.

He opens his mouth to speak, only to snap it closed when the words don’t come, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes.

“Shh…” Namjoon’s thumb smooths over his cheekbone as he shuffles closer along the floor, rising onto his knees to kiss Yoongi’s cheek. “Just relax. You’re okay.”

Just for now, just for a second, Yoongi doesn’t feel okay. He’s freezing, shivering hard despite the blanket, his eyes achy with the tears that have fallen in the adrenaline letdown. More than anything, though, Yoongi just wants to talk.

He wants to tell Namjoon he’s beautiful. He wants to tell him that he’s sorry for all the shit he put him through when they first met. That he was stupid and vulnerable, and Namjoon intimidated him in a way that he wasn’t ready to admit.

He wants to tell Namjoon that he’s the reason Yoongi can sleep without nightmares. That the bell on his wrist grounds him in and out of scenes. That the thin loop of ribbon almost feels like Namjoon’s hand when Yoongi is scared and alone. He wants to tell Namjoon that he loves his shitty coffee and his stupid, pretentious cup. He wants to tell him the cup is the only thing Yoongi hand washes daily, just because he can’t stand the thought of going without it. Because it’s a good fucking cup, but more importantly, it’s just…

Namjoon.

He wants to tell Namjoon he’s the best thing that ever happened to him. That he doesn’t deserve all the things Namjoon makes him feel, but he’s too selfish to let this go.

Yoongi doesn’t like being here—this dark, empty house that hasn’t felt like a home in a long time. The bed feels too big, too cold. The walls are adorned with ghostly outlines of the photos that once hung there. The view from his bedroom window is his neighbor’s wooden fence, which is too close, too tall, blocking out the sunlight.

He can’t be here lately without thinking of Namjoon.

He’s spent the night in Namjoon’s bed multiple times now. Each time, he wakes up with the sun warm on his face and a heavy arm slung protectively across him. He can lie in bed and look at the sky through the muted haze of the sheer curtains and feel like he’s in another world—a world where nothing bad happens, a world where he’s safe and protected and loved.

He’s not loved. Not by Namjoon.

He’s lucky enough that being liked by Namjoon feels good enough on its own.

Swiveling side to side in his desk chair, Yoongi stares at the laptop screen in front of him. One of his more recent scenes was posted this morning, featuring a dark dungeon setup with a slave trapped in a medieval-style pillory. His wrists and neck are secured between the wooden boards, legs obediently spread wide, ready to be punished. In the video, Yoongi walks into the frame, slow and menacing, trailing his fingers through the tails of the flogger in his hand.

More so than ever, he felt like an imposter.

The flogger had felt strange in his hands, out of place. He’s only watching the video to see if he looked as stiff and inexperienced as he felt, and he does. He really does.

The strikes look controlled and practiced, the result of classes upon classes until he finally mastered the technique. Where to hit, how hard, and maintaining the appropriate distance to keep the tails from flicking around and damaging sensitive areas. He can almost see himself thinking through it, concentrating. He was barely getting anything out of it himself because he was so focused on getting it right.

Namjoon had been so good with the flogger on Yoongi during their first scene. It didn’t feel like he was carefully thinking through his every move, hesitant and awkward. He was guided by experience, confidence, his own natural dominance.

Yoongi shivers, shifting in his chair as he skips through the video. If he can ignore how ridiculous he looks, it’s still kind of sexy. Kind of exciting. In the moments where his face isn’t visible on-screen, he can imagine himself as the sub, imagine Namjoon as the one wielding the flogger behind him. It’s a thought that makes him almost want to film the scene again with the roles reversed.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like he might get there one day.

He squirms in his chair again, holding his lower lip between his teeth at the dull pleasure that pulses through him. As part of his training, he’s wearing a plug. It’s too small to even matter—small enough to ignore when he’s not putting pressure on it.

He would have never been able to make himself go through with this on his own. When he slid his underwear down and reached for the plug and the lube, some part of his brain froze like a startled deer, throat tight and fingers trembling.

The only reason he could go through with it was Namjoon’s voice in his head, gently commanding him to start wearing the plug daily. To report back each day that he was wearing it or face punishment during their next scene.

“Unless,” Namjoon had been quick to add, “it’s too uncomfortable or something. Just text me your safeword on those days so I’ll know.”

Yoongi couldn’t pretend that he enjoyed putting it in. He didn’t feel anything aside from a cycle of panic and indifference, followed by a moment of pure terror as he felt himself open up. A second later, the plug was nestled securely inside him, pulled in as if his body was hungry for it, and there was no point in taking it out when he’d already come this far.

Now, at least, he has Namjoon’s voice to look forward to, when he calls to check in. The thought of the praise he’ll get makes it feel good to shift on the plug, to feel the pressure inside of him, imagining it’s Namjoon’s fingers.

One day, if Yoongi can keep this up, it will be.

The video has gotten to the part where he’s fucking the sub from behind, hands squeezing and slapping at the reddened skin of their ass, their moans loud and exaggerated. Yoongi presses his laptop closed with one hand, disinterested, as he angles back in his chair to press his fingers against the base of the plug through his pants.

He stifles a moan in his throat, his head falling back against the chair. This is so… basic. He wouldn’t have gotten anything out of this back when he subbed regularly. Now, the hard base nestled between his cheeks, hidden beneath his clothes, seems filthy and exciting. Just feeling it with his fingers—hard and obvious, shifting and pulsing each time his muscles tense and relax—stirs up a warm swirl of arousal.

“Fuck.” Yoongi squeezes his eyes closed, sucking in a deep breath through his nose.

He kind of wants to get off, but he’s not sure if it’s allowed. He and Namjoon never discussed setting a boundary like that. Wearing the plug on his own time is the first time they’ve ever extended their dynamic outside their scenes, but he wants to be told it’s okay.

He wants Namjoon to know he’s wearing it. To tell him he’s good and encourage him to touch himself.

The bell clinks softly around Yoongi’s wrist when he grabs his phone off the desk, and he has Namjoon’s contact pulled up without having to think about it.

“Oh hey,” Namjoon says, picking up after the first ring. He sounds soft and breathless—the way he does in the moments after their scenes, when he holds Yoongi and talks to him as Yoongi comes back to earth.

It brings Yoongi back to earth now, too, dousing him with cold water. He straightens up in his chair, pulling his hand away from the plug.

The thing is that Yoongi is here. So if Namjoon is in a warm, post-scene glow, it's with someone else.

The squeeze of nausea in Yoongi’s throat is punctuated by a tight twist of grief which reminds him of his fucking breakup, of all things. He clears his throat, dampening his lips. “Are you in the middle of something?”

“Oh—no.” There’s a clunking sound on the other end, a door slamming. “I just came back in,” Namjoon says, and his voice sounds close and muffled like he has his phone pinned between his shoulder and his cheek. “I was picking green beans. Oh my god, Yoongi—they’re so cute. I’ve never grown them before.”

“You… what?” The image of Namjoon lying on the couch with some other sub in his arms shatters, and Yoongi is left with the thought of Namjoon, warm and sweaty, with a bowl of freshly picked green beans. What the fuck.

“From my garden,” Namjoon says, like that actually helps. Like Yoongi was aware he had a garden in the first place. “Sorry—not important.” There’s a shifting sound, the familiar slide of chair legs across the kitchen floor. “What’s up?”

“Um.” It’s embarrassing now that the mood is broken. Yoongi is suddenly very aware that he’s sitting alone in his room wearing the world’s smallest excuse for a plug, and somehow expecting to be praised for it. Why on earth should Namjoon care that Yoongi successfully shoved a piece of silicone up his ass while he’s doing normal things like gardening?

“Are you… Are you wearing it?” Namjoon asks, low and secretive, and a shiver runs down Yoongi’s spine.

He swallows. “Yes. Yes Sir.”

He probably shouldn’t call Namjoon that right now. They’re not doing a scene. They’re not in a relationship. There’s no excuse for this other than the fact that some part of Yoongi’s brain seems to need it, defaulting into submission just because he carried out a command.

Namjoon is well within his rights to tell Yoongi to stop.

“Show me,” Namjoon says firmly. “I won’t believe it unless I see it.”

Heat bursts up Yoongi’s neck, radiating through his face. “Should I—Should I take a picture?”

“Only if it’s a good one. If it’s dark and blurry, don’t waste my time.”

“Yes Sir,” Yoongi says thickly. He switches his phone to speaker and moves to the bed, turning on the overhead light and a lamp along the way.

Namjoon waits, not saying a word, and there’s something exciting about the thought that Yoongi hasn’t quite yet earned his praise.

He shoves his pants and underwear down and climbs onto the bed on his knees, bending forward and lifting his ass toward the light. It takes a few tries to get it perfectly lit and in focus. The angle makes it difficult and his arm casts a shadow, but he finally manages it.

The soft blue of the plug stands out in sharp contrast against his pale skin, the angle of the picture showing off the swell of his asscheeks and allowing a small glimpse of the flushed pink of his rim, gripped tightly around the thin shaft of the plug. It’s still a little shiny with leftover lube, glinting in the light.

“Okay,” Yoongi breathes. “Okay, I’m sending it.”

“Good.” Seconds later, when the message goes through, Namjoon adds, “Fuck, that looks perfect. You’re such a good boy, Yoongi. How does it feel?”

It’s not a question Yoongi knows how to answer, not with the cycle of feelings he’s had all afternoon. It wasn’t good at first—having anything inside him, even if he put it there himself, took him back to things he didn’t want to remember. But…

“It’s good now,” Yoongi says. “Sir. I—really good.”

“Yeah?” Yoongi can hear the smile in his voice and imagine the familiar sparkle in his eyes. He squirms against the mattress. “Is that why you called? You wanted to tell me how good you feel?”

Yoongi nods, and when he remembers Namjoon can’t see him, he says, “Yes Sir.”

“Then tell me. I’m listening. I want to know everything.”

So Yoongi tells him. He skips over how scared he was to put the plug in, how it made every alarm bell ring in his mind, and focuses instead on the past half hour or so: Skimming through his own porn for the purposes of critique, missing the feeling of being flogged, shifting in his chair just so—

“Touch yourself for me,” Namjoon murmurs. “Are you hard right now?”

He’s not, but it won’t take long to get there. The arousal that’s been smoldering low inside him responds immediately to his touch—the first tug on his dick has it hardening in his hand. “No Sir. Almost.”

Namjoon guides him through stroking himself until he’s hard and panting, then has him reach down with his free hand to play with the plug.

“Leave it inside you,” Namjoon instructs, “but you can push and pull on it. Nice and easy.”

“Yes Sir,” Yoongi responds, breathless, his eyes falling closed as he pulls gently on the plug. He can feel the flared shaft tugging at the inside of his hole, a pressure that has his toes curling as he loosens his grip and presses on the base with two fingers.

And it’s good, surprisingly good, a perfect complement to the feeling of his fist traveling up and down his dick, the plug nudging against his prostate with each movement.

It doesn’t take him long to come, his head falling back against the mattress as he moans, all while Namjoon praises him, tells how beautiful he sounds.

“You’re so good, Yoongi. I’m so proud of you,” Namjoon says, and maybe it’s silly, but Yoongi feels weirdly proud of himself, too.

Maybe this is a step toward healing.

Maybe it won’t be long before Namjoon can touch him.

It feels like one of his nightmares.

He’s on his knees, bent forward with his ass in the air, his head supported on a pillow that holds Namjoon’s scent in a way that should be comforting.

It’s not a nightmare. This is real. He’s safe—even if the way his head is angled to the side is too familiar, even if the movement of someone behind him, while he’s so defenseless, makes his eyes burn.

His hands are cuffed behind his back, a bar strapped between his ankles keeping his legs spread, and his breaths are coming too quick, too harsh. The bell is clutched in his hand, and it might be the only thing keeping the panic at bay.

Careful fingers trail up the sides of his thighs, cool and soothing against the slap-reddened skin.

“Good boy,” Namjoon murmurs, low and gentle, and Yoongi shivers. He’s safe. It’s just Namjoon.

Just Namjoon.

His hands slide to Yoongi’s cheeks, squeezing, spreading him open, and Yoongi’s breath catches. They planned for this, and Yoongi knew what to expect. Namjoon has been so patient with him, so careful, getting him comfortable with being touched from the outside, practicing with plugs on his own. He has no reason to be afraid, and the panic sparking in his chest is irrational, stupid. He knows that. But…

He can’t do this.

He wants to do this.

He has to.

“Shh…” Namjoon’s thumb strokes his skin soothingly. “Color?”

Yoongi squeezes his eyes closed and focuses on his surroundings. This is Namjoon’s bed, Namjoon’s scent. He can hear birds outside, quiet and distant. This isn’t a cold, makeshift set in a repurposed Vegas warehouse.

He nods because his voice won’t let him say “green.” It’s trapped inside him, a lump in his chest that feels big and sharp, clenching in his throat like unshed tears.

“Just one finger,” Namjoon reminds him, so soft. Maybe he knows Yoongi is lying to him. Or maybe he just knows Yoongi will break if he’s cruel to him. “We won’t go any further than that.”

Yoongi flinches when he hears the cap of the lube clicking open behind him.

“We can stop anytime you want to,” Namjoon says. Just like he always does before touching Yoongi like this.

A lubed finger traces his rim, light and careful, and pleasure tingles up Yoongi’s spine. He’s gotten used to this much, at least. It’s the foreboding thought of going any further that keeps Yoongi from fully relaxing into it. He tightens his fist around the bell as Namjoon teases him gently from the outside. It's wonderful, terrible, and his nerves are somehow oversensitized but numb. Everything seems as far away and unerotic as it was the night he tried to touch himself to Namjoon’s porn.

The feeling of being bent over, exposed, trapped and at Namjoon’s mercy—it’s more terrifying than arousing.

“Relax for me,” Namjoon says, his fingertip tracing gently down Yoongi’s crack. He moves it back up, following the slick trail of lube, pressing a little more firmly, and the tip of his finger slides right in as if Yoongi’s body is made for him, prepared for him.

It’s not.

Yoongi’s entire body tenses, his heart leaping into his throat and pushing hot tears into his eyes. It doesn’t hurt. There’s no way barely a fingertip could be painful, especially after all the training he’s been doing at home—but somehow it feels bigger than that, worse than that. Like something huge and unyielding that’s ruining him, taking him apart, breaking something deep inside of him that can never be repaired. Something that hurts like a breakup, abandonment, like isolation and shame; something that’s heavy and dark, dragging him under, wrapped around him like vines.

And he can smell the warehouse—a bitter mix of sawdust, sweat, and sex. Behind the cheaply reinforced walls is the muffled sound of Vegas traffic. Yoongi’s wrist jerks on instinct, a Pavlovian response to fear, conditioned over the past few months by gentle kisses and rewards. The muffled ring of the bell in his fist is distant and unfamiliar, out of place in his nightmare.

This isn’t a nightmare. That’s maybe the worst part.

When Yoongi comes back to himself, he’s breathing fast and hard, face buried in his hands and his fingers curled too tight in his hair.

He’s uncuffed.

He can move his legs too, he realizes belatedly. They’re pressed together tightly beneath the sheets, his knees aching where they’ve been grinding into each other. Everything aches—his body tense and tight, curled up in a ball as if to hide.

Broken.

He doesn’t realize he’s shivering beneath the sheet until Namjoon pulls a blanket over him, heavy and so very soft; it’s the same moment he realizes that Namjoon has been talking to him, maybe he has been this whole time. Gentle words and reassurances, promises that they’re done, that Namjoon isn’t going to touch him anymore, that he’s safe.

He’s safe.

When he lowers his hands from his face and opens his eyes, he’s in Namjoon’s bed. He knew that—of course he did—but somehow it still feels like a surprise. This isn’t a dungeon set, and he’s not alone on a cold cement floor. Windows are letting in the warm afternoon sunlight, and Namjoon’s sheets are a pretty powder blue.

“Hey,” Namjoon says gently. “Are you with me?”

Yoongi draws in a breath through his nose, centering himself, and lets himself look at Namjoon. He still looks powerful, like a Dom, clean and in control—dark clothes, the short sleeves of his shirt hugging the curves of his biceps, making him look bigger, stronger. But it’s his face that Yoongi really sees: half-lit in sunlight, his eyes soft and concerned and full of something that makes Yoongi’s chest hurt. He nods—he’s here.

“Can I touch you?”

Yoongi is nodding before Namjoon even finishes asking, and a warm, gentle hand lands on his cheek. His eyes flutter closed as Namjoon’s thumb glides across his cheekbone, wiping away the tears he doesn’t remember falling.

“Good boy.” Namjoon shifts until he’s lying next to him, on top of the blanket, his head cushioned on his folded arm. His free hand remains on Yoongi’s cheek, the movement of his thumb never stopping. “You’re such a good boy, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s not sure what he’s done during their scene that could possibly be considered good, but he tries to let himself be comforted by the words anyway. As if reading his mind—and Yoongi sometimes suspects he can when they’re like this—Namjoon says, “I’m proud of you for using your bell.”

The bell. Yoongi twists his hand beneath the sheet until the bell shifts back into the cradle of his palm, fitting right into the little indent that seems to be made for it. It makes everything feel a little more real, makes Yoongi feel a little more present.

If Namjoon thinks Yoongi is weak, pathetic, for stopping the scene over nothing, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps looking at Yoongi like he means something, like he’s important.

“Did I hurt you?” Namjoon asks.

Yoongi shakes his head. It takes a moment for his sluggish brain to assess his body, every inch of it, but he already knows he’s okay. Physically, anyway. It’s in the mess of his head that things get confusing and painful, his mind screaming that he was in danger even if his body felt kind of nice.

Namjoon presses a kiss to his forehead, firm and lingering. “Good.” It’s a touch that leaves Yoongi wanting more. He wants Namjoon to wrap him in his arms and squeeze, hold him tight until the world feels normal again.

And Yoongi can’t say that to him, can’t ask for it. All he can do is shift a little closer, wriggling a hand out from beneath the sheet and the blanket to wrap his fingers around Namjoon’s wrist and guide it down to his waist. And Namjoon, somehow, seems to understand.

He wraps his arm around Yoongi and drags him closer, crushing the space between them, and Yoongi buries his face in the dip between Namjoon’s pecs. Yoongi nuzzles in harder than he probably should, the soft cotton of Namjoon’s shirt a comforting warmth against his cheeks. He wants to bury himself closer and breathe in Namjoon’s scent until the world seems safe again.

Namjoon’s hold around him tightens steadily, as if Namjoon is feeling out the boundaries, waiting for Yoongi to make him stop. But Yoongi won’t—he’d let Namjoon squeeze the breath from his lungs before he makes him stop. He ends up wrapped in an unyielding vice, a hold he could never hope to break free of, and he can feel the tightness of it in his chest every time he draws a breath. Namjoon’s heart beats steadily against his cheek, Yoongi riding the gentle swell of each of Namjoon’s inhales—a comfortable, cozy movement, like a hammock swaying softly in the breeze.

And it’s there, in the safety of Namjoon’s arms, that he breaks.

The tears come silently at first, his breath shaking in his lungs, and Namjoon must be able to feel it. But he doesn’t say anything. He only seems to hold him tighter, nuzzling into Yoongi’s hair as the tears come harder, transforming into aching sobs from some hollow place deep inside him.

He can’t even feel embarrassed about this, not with Namjoon. Not with the person who has seen him at his worst time and time again. The person that held him together and protected him at his most vulnerable.

Later, when Yoongi has cried himself out and feels somewhat human again, Namjoon asks if they can talk.

It doesn’t exactly make the top ten list of things Yoongi wants to talk about, but… They have to. The whole dynamic breaks down if they can’t trust each other, if they can’t communicate. Yoongi isn’t sure he can even put it into words, but after everything Namjoon has done for him, he owes it to him to try.

Over the course of their scenes, Namjoon’s kitchen has become a safe, neutral zone. It’s where they meet to plan out their scenes, to discuss anything that went wrong afterward. They never end up playing there—not for any particular reason, Yoongi thinks—but it allows the kitchen to be a good place for conversations like this.

When Yoongi gets dressed and makes his way to the kitchen, there’s already an ashtray on the table. He's been getting the feeling that Namjoon just leaves it there for him now as a permanent fixture, which isn’t a thought he’s prepared to explore too deeply.

Namjoon has changed into something less intimidating; his black, form-fitting shirt swapped out for something oversized and faded pink. If the uneven coloring is anything to go by, it might have been white before it was mistakenly thrown in with the reds in the wash. “Mistakenly” might be too generous. Maybe Namjoon just didn’t know any better.

Yoongi can feel a smile tug at his lips.

“You okay?” Namjoon asks as he sits down across from him, sliding a glass of water across the table. “You look better.”

“I’m fine. It was just… an overreaction.”

Namjoon’s lips twitch into something resembling a frown, his eyes searching Yoongi’s. “Whether that’s true or not, it still upset you enough to want to stop the scene. That makes it worth talking about.”

Yoongi sighs, tapping his finger on the side of his glass and watching the water ripple. He doesn’t even know how to begin talking about this, is the thing. It feels like there’s nothing to talk about at all. It feels like there’s too much.

“I know something happened,” Namjoon says gently, “that made you not want to sub or bottom again. And you still don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but… I think it would help me help you if I had some context.”

Yoongi bites at his fingernail, thinking it over. He knows exactly when his fear started, but he can’t fully explain why. Can’t find words for the sickening feeling the memory puts in the pit of his stomach, the nightmares, the way all his anxieties just seemed to get worse in the aftermath. The way his mutism went from an infrequent nuisance to a humiliating fact of life. He lost everything—his relationship, his confidence, his sense of safety—and for what? A dick in his ass that he’d been prepared for anyway?

He’d walked onto set that day knowing he’d get fucked. The same way he always did. There was never a reason for him to end up like this, and he doesn’t want Namjoon to see him the same way he sees himself: Broken, dramatic, a waste of time.

“Here.” There’s a click of metal against the table, a familiar ringing, and Yoongi looks up to see Namjoon slide his bell toward him. “Put this back on. You can use it if you want to stop.”

“This isn’t a scene, Namjoon,” Yoongi says as he picks up the bell. Still, he carefully slips it on, some of the tension easing out of him as he feels the slight, familiar weight against this skin, the cool metal of the bell settling against him.

“You don’t lose the right to stop things that push you too far just because we aren’t doing a scene,” Namjoon says. “You always get to set your own boundaries. I just… I’m trusting you to only use it when you need it. If I really… if things are really going too far. And I just ask for you to trust that I’m not trying to hurt you.”

Yoongi swallows thickly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Namjoon repeats. He dampens his lips, his eyes flickering away from Yoongi’s just for a moment. “Do you… Can you tell me why you don’t sub anymore?”

“It really is stupid,” Yoongi warns him, his voice thin over the lump in his throat. He pauses to light a cigarette, hyperaware of the feeling of Namjoon’s eyes on him. He breathes in deep, holding the smoke in his lungs until it burns, then pushing it out in a heavy gust through his nose. “It was just… a scene gone wrong, I guess.”

Namjoon blinks at him, seemingly waiting for an explanation. When none comes, he asks, “What does that mean?”

Yoongi shrugs and drags the ashtray closer just for something to do with his hands. He spins it absently, the ceramic scraping against the wood of the table. “I don’t know. Just what it sounds like.” It’s purposely vague, and he knows it. Yoongi steels himself and adds, “I needed to use my safeword, but I couldn’t. So.”

Namjoon sits up a little straighter. “What?”

“What?” Yoongi repeats, blinking at him. Pretending his heart isn’t pounding so hard that he wants to throw up.

“What do you mean you couldn’t use it? They didn’t let you?”

Yoongi twists his cigarette between his fingers. “They didn’t know. I panicked, so I couldn’t—my voice. I couldn’t say it.”

The look of absolute devastation on Namjoon’s face isn’t exactly what Yoongi had expected. It would be an appropriate reaction if Yoongi had just confessed to kicking a puppy, maybe. Not for finding out his occasionally nonverbal coworker had, unsurprisingly, been unable to speak.

Namjoon’s eyes drift down to Yoongi’s fist as if he can see the bell clutched inside. “And you… didn’t have another way to communicate that you wanted to stop?” It’s more of a statement than a question, careful and hesitant. When Yoongi shakes his head, Namjoon asks, “What happened? Did they just… finish the scene without your consent?”

Yoongi shakes his head again, lifting his cigarette to his lips and inhaling deeply. “No,” he says around a breath of smoke. “They didn’t finish. I passed out eventually, I guess—I don’t remember a lot of it. My head was pressed down at this angle where I couldn’t really breathe, so I guess I just—”

“They could have killed you.” The hesitancy is gone, replaced with a firmness that catches Yoongi off guard.

“What?”

“Yoongi, this—all of this…” Namjoon leans forward, closer into Yoongi’s space, resting his arms on the table. “Everything that happened from the moment you tried to use your safeword was nonconsensual.”

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his chair, looking away. “It’s not like anyone knew. They would have stopped the scene if someone noticed.”

“It was the Dom’s job to notice,” Namjoon says. “Whether you could use your safeword or not, it was their job to watch you and check in with you. The whole thing should have stopped long before you passed out—fuck.” He flops back in his chair, raking a hand through his hair. “Yoongi, I’m so sorry.”

Yoongi shrugs, knocking the ash off his cigarette with a deliberate tap of his finger and watching it crumble into the ashtray. “It’s not like he was a real Dom. He was just playing a part.”

“Then he had no business touching you.”

“Jesus.” Yoongi props his cigarette in the ashtray and rubs his face into his palm, the heel of his hand digging into his eye until he sees stars. “It doesn’t work that way. Haven’t you been doing porn long enough to know that?”

“I don’t know what other Doms are like,” Namjoon says. “I take care of the subs I film with.”

He probably didn’t mean for that to strike like a knife in Yoongi’s heart, but it feels like a taunt. A reminder that the affection and care he receives from Namjoon are nothing special. Nothing that Namjoon saves just for him.

He treats Yoongi like he loves him only because Yoongi asked him to.

“But there are a lot of bad Doms out there,” Namjoon goes on, “even in the real world. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I just… I thought this would be safer. I always imagined experts on set to help or stop the scene if it goes too far. To keep filming without anyone realizing anything was wrong just seems…” he shakes his head, frowning. “Wasn’t Taehyung there?”

“Don’t bring Taehyung into this,” Yoongi says sharply. He picks up his cigarette from the ashtray, lifting it halfway to his mouth before changing his mind and smashing it down into the ceramic to extinguish it. He’s barely let it go before he changes his mind once more, pulling a fresh one out of his pack and lighting up again.

Of course Taehyung was there. He just didn’t notice anything amiss, either.

And Yoongi can still see it—the guilt in his eyes every time Taehyung looks at him. Every time Taehyung lets Yoongi get away with something, or offers him something just a little bit nicer than he does the others, Yoongi knows. Knows that Taehyung sees him as something broken, a personal failure.

And sometimes it’s easier, when Taehyung is around, to pretend like he was never hurt. Because seeing the light leave Taehyung’s eyes and the guilt cloud his features makes Yoongi wish he’d never lost consciousness at all.

Everyone would have been better off if he could have held on. If he could have finished the scene without anyone ever knowing he wanted to stop. The video could have been posted and he wouldn't have wasted anyone’s time or money.

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon says finally. “That’s none of my business. I just… No wonder you stopped subbing. That should have never happened to you.”

It’s somehow everything Yoongi has always wanted to hear and something he’s not prepared to listen to all at once. This makes it sound bigger than it really is. More serious. It was, at worst, a misunderstanding. Nothing more.

“And you…” Namjoon pauses, dampening his lips. He fixes his eyes on the bell once more. “Don’t forget you can stop this if you need to, okay? But I guess… he was fucking you, too? That’s why you don’t like to be touched?”

Yoongi tightens his fist around the bell, the metal rattling dully, and Namjoon sits up a little straighter.

“Yeah,” Yoongi says before he can talk himself out of it. Before Namjoon jumps to the wrong conclusion and thinks Yoongi is too fragile to have a simple conversation. “That’s… yeah. I just started to associate subbing and bottoming with—that. And the drop I had afterward was… different. Everything was different after that. I couldn’t go back.”

“Whatever you were feeling,” Namjoon says gently, slowly, “I don’t think it was sub drop.”

That shouldn’t be the thing that worries him, that makes sirens blare in Yoongi’s mind and almost, almost has him ringing the bell. “Yes, it was.” Yoongi can hear the waver of uncertainty in his own voice. “I checked—there are a lot of things online. Crying, depression, all of that. It’s normal.”

“But you still feel that way, don’t you?” Namjoon asks, and Yoongi can’t bring himself to answer. Maybe that’s answer enough. “I’ve never known sub drop to last more than several weeks, even when it’s extreme. Yoongi, I…” Namjoon scoots his chair closer, as close as he can, until his ribs are pressed against the edge of the table. He reaches out, only to flinch back before his fingers touch Yoongi’s.

“You can touch me,” Yoongi mumbles. He wants Namjoon to touch him—anytime, unexpectedly. To reach out and hold him whenever he thinks Yoongi might need it, because Yoongi won’t ask for it himself. “It’s kind of silly to ask at this point, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so,” Namjoon says as he lays his hand on top of Yoongi’s, his fingers slowly curling around the sides. “It’s never silly to respect someone’s boundaries. Just because I’ve touched you during scenes doesn’t mean I’m entitled to touch you whenever I want.”

It feels like Namjoon is talking about something bigger than this, skirting around the edge of something Yoongi is too afraid to face.

“I don’t want you to ask,” Yoongi says. “Not for something like this.”

The smile on Namjoon’s face is soft and comforting. “Okay.” He smooths his thumb over the bumps of Yoongi’s knuckles. “I won’t ask anymore. Tell me if you change your mind.”

Yoongi nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I will.”

“But what I wanted to say was just…” Namjoon pulls in a slow breath, and he seems to wait for Yoongi to meet his eyes before he goes on, “That scene—that wasn’t normal. Everything should have stopped when you wanted it to. Everything that happened to you after that point was sexual assault, Yoongi.”

Heat flares through Yoongi’s face, some strange mix of anger and shame burning in his eyes. “It was an accident,” he says, a tiny crack of hysteria around the edges. “You can’t accidentally rape someone. It doesn’t work that way. I signed up to get fucked, and I got fucked. You’re making it sound like they lured me there on purpose to—”

“No.” Namjoon’s grip tightens on Yoongi’s hand, squeezing gently. “I believe you. It happened exactly the way you said it did. It was a normal scene until no one noticed you needed to stop and couldn’t speak. You still weren’t consenting.”

Some part of him must have known this, must have wanted to hear it. But with Namjoon right here in front of him, reaching the conclusions Yoongi felt crazy for even thinking about, he’s not quite sure how to react. He feels frozen, paralyzed under the weight of it, and he can’t react at all.

It’s better than being made to feel like he’s overreacting. Better than the implication that it’s an inevitable part of being in porn. Better than being told he’s ruined.

Namjoon believes him. Maybe he needed to hear that more than anything else.

But it still fucking hurts.

Namjoon squeezes his hand. “Have you talked to a counselor about this?”

Yoongi nods, then backtracks and shakes his head. He tried. Kind of. It came up in conversation, something Yoongi mentioned in passing, even though they tended to avoid any discussion of his career. His counselor’s response was a noncommittal hum and a “that’s part of the risk of adult entertainment, isn’t it?”

They asked him if he tried reframing it, looking at it as a way to cut ties and find new opportunities. He cut ties with his counselor instead and never quite got around to finding a new one.

“I just… I don’t think I’m equipped to help you with this.”

Yoongi jerks his hand away so quickly that the ashtray gets knocked to the floor, hitting the tile in an explosion of ash and old cigarette butts.

His boyfriend. His peace of mind. The simple pleasure of bottoming, of subbing. It’s all gone, all crumbled away like ash, and Namjoon—this soft, wonderful thing he has with Namjoon—is just one more thing to slip through his fingers. One more thing that he’s too ruined to have.

“Shit—wait, I’m sorry.” Namjoon is talking quickly, his words tripping over themselves. “That’s not what I—that came out so wrong, Yoongi, I’m sorry, please just…”

He can feel Namjoon trying to meet his eyes, but he can’t make himself look back. Not yet. Because he thinks he’ll cry if he does. His jaw is clenched so tightly that it hurts, a telling burn behind his eyes as he glares down at the tabletop.

He’s ruined. Porn ruins people. It ruined him, and it will ruin Namjoon. And Jimin, and Taehyung, and everyone else he cares about.

He doesn’t believe that at all. He believes it completely.

“What I mean is just—mentally.” Namjoon is still going, fast and desperate, his words almost blending into static. “You need someone to talk to about this. Someone who can help you process it and understand it and heal from it. And I’m not qualified for that. I’m not—I want to listen, I’ll always listen—but I’m not a professional. What I can do, what I’ll do as long as you want me to, is help you physically. Okay? Nothing is changing. I can train your body to enjoy being touched again, but that doesn’t… That’s only part of it, right?”

From the corner of his eye, he can see the movement of Namjoon getting up and stepping around the mess on the floor. Then, all at once, he’s at Yoongi’s side, kneeling down near his chair.

“Yoongi.” His voice is so close, so soothing, and Yoongi can’t help but look at him. It’s almost surreal, a kick in his chest that knocks the breath from his lungs, to see Namjoon looking up at him from a vulnerable and submissive position.

Namjoon’s hands come up slowly, so very slowly, before landing soft and warm on Yoongi’s cheeks. “I’ll take care of you,” he promises, his thumbs smoothing over Yoongi’s cheekbones. “BDSM is a healthy outlet for survivors of all kinds of trauma. It gives you control, and that’s a good thing. I would never try to take that away from you.”

Maybe if it had been anyone else, Yoongi wouldn’t have believed them. But this is Namjoon. Yoongi trusts him like he’s never trusted anyone else—that’s the only reason Yoongi has been able to practice with him at all.

As much as the fear and uncertainty in Yoongi’s mind tells him to pull away, to shake off Namjoon’s touch and leave, he finds he doesn’t want to.

He manages a nod, and he suddenly feels a little better for it. A little safer.

“And knowing all of this,” Namjoon goes on, “it helps. I can plan out our scenes more carefully. I can—we can take things slower. Whatever you need.”

Yoongi doesn’t know what he needs.

He needs to get over this, to be the strong person Namjoon thinks he is. The one who regularly conquers his fear of flying, restaurants, and crowds. The one who keeps moving forward despite his fear.

He doesn’t know what makes this fear different. Why he freezes every time he tries to move forward. But somehow, telling someone—telling Namjoon—feels like he’s taken a step in the right direction.

Namjoon smiles up at him. “I’ll make you some coffee. How does that sound? Then we can watch a movie or something.”

All Yoongi can do is nod in response, watching as Namjoon maneuvers around the mess on the floor to start a pot of coffee. He gets a muted, brown-and-green box of filters out of the cabinet, with a label that says something about being organic and biodegradable. The filter itself looks too thin to be useful, frail and brown, like it’s halfway to biodegrading already.

Still, Yoongi can’t help but smile to himself as Namjoon hums offkey, starting the coffee brewing and then getting out a broom. Yoongi drops the remains of his cigarette into the glass of water and holds out his hand, leaning forward in his seat. He’s the one who broke the ashtray; the least he can do is clean it up.

Instead of handing him the broom, Namjoon only takes his hand, squeezing it. “I’ve got it,” he says. “Why don’t you pick out a movie?”

By the time Yoongi has gotten settled in the living room and picked out a quiet, simple movie that he can fall asleep to, he can hear Namjoon dumping the remaining shards of ceramic into the trash. The aroma of fresh coffee is rich and comforting in the air, and Namjoon joins him on the couch with a mug in each hand.

Their fingers brush as Yoongi takes the mug Namjoon offers him, a soft pulse of warmth rushing through him. The first sip is weird and sharp, more so than usual, and it takes Yoongi a moment to realize that the bitter flecks on his tongue are coffee grounds that made their way through the filter.

A breathy laugh works its way out of him, and he shakes his head fondly as he takes another sip.

“What?” Namjoon asks, nudging him with his elbow.

Even if Yoongi could respond, he wouldn’t want to. The coffee barely registers as terrible anymore, if he’s being honest. It’s familiar and comforting, despite being a little abnormal and awkward, like everything about Namjoon. And the fact that the taste has been caused by weird-ass ecofriendly filters this whole time is just…

It’s endearing. It’s just another thing Yoongi wants to keep, like the collar, the bell, and the pretentious cup. And maybe those things wouldn’t matter at all if they weren’t connected to Namjoon.

His voice is back by the time he realizes he’s in love, but it doesn’t matter, because he’ll never be able to make himself say it.

Chapter Text

“You’ve seemed different lately,” Taehyung says as they roll to a stop at a red light. Yoongi can feel Taehyung’s eyes on him, waiting for a response. When it becomes clear that Taehyung is fully capable of waiting him out, Yoongi sighs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They start moving again when the light changes, the engine purring as Taehyung brings it back up to speed as much as he can in the afternoon traffic.

“You’re different,” Taehyung repeats. “I don’t know. More relaxed. You didn’t look like you were about to crawl out of your skin when I picked you up.”

When Taehyung had picked Yoongi up from the airport this morning, Yoongi had been distracted texting Namjoon. He’d worked his way up to a larger plug over the past couple of weeks, and Namjoon had been in the middle of instructing him to wear it during today’s shoot if he could get away with it.

Yoongi doesn’t know if it’s possible yet. He has the plug in his bag just in case, and he keeps his clothes on more often than not as a Dom, but it’s not a guarantee. Still—the fantasy of wearing the plug on set was enough to make his heart race and face warm, distracting him from the lingering flight anxiety.

“Did you miss it?” Yoongi asks. “I’ll have a meltdown next time. Just for you.”

He can see Taehyung’s smile out of the corner of his eye. “See! This is what I mean. Who are you, and what have you done with my unplayful, broody Yoongi?”

A hand reaches over and squeezes Yoongi’s knee, softening the words. “Seriously,” Taehyung adds. “You’ve seemed happy lately. It’s nice to see.”

Yoongi turns toward the window, hiding the flush he can feel spreading across his cheeks. Is he happy? He hadn’t thought about it. Playing with Namjoon gives him a chance to let go of his anxieties and unwind, which has to have helped. Namjoon had given him the number for a kink-friendly counselor in Sparks, but… Yoongi hasn’t brought himself to call yet. Maybe he doesn’t need to. Having the number saved in his phone is reassuring enough for now.

“I’m not unhappy,” Yoongi says finally. Part of him is just being difficult, enjoying Taehyung’s exaggerated huff of frustration, but... He really doesn’t know. It’s been so long since he’s been truly happy that he’s forgotten what it feels like.

He’s still single, still alone. Still plagued with nightmares and irrational fears. But maybe there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

“Well,” Taehyung says, “whatever you’re doing—keep doing it. It’s helping.”

Yoongi hears the impatient drumming of fingers against the steering wheel as they come to another stop.

“Come on,” Taehyung groans, his head flopping back against his seat dramatically. “We’re going to be late. This is a horrible first impression.”

“It’ll be fine,” Yoongi says, shrugging. The company he’s shooting with today is one he hasn’t heard of. They requested him specifically on more than one occasion, eagerly waiting for an opening in his schedule. They’d been almost pushy about it, according to Taehyung. “They’ve waited this long. They can wait a little longer.”

The petty side of him feels kind of relieved that they wanted him this badly. Taehyung had offered to turn them down simply because they were having a hard time taking no for an answer, but…

Yoongi still has a good reputation. He knows he does. He gets plenty of work, and his videos still do well, despite not being the “fan favorite.” Ever since the awards, though, the demand for him seems to have decreased. It could be in his head—Taehyung is fielding all these requests in the first place—but it still feels good to know there’s at least one company out there dying to cast him and no one else.

Taehyung huffs, shaking his head fondly. “My little diva.”

Yoongi shrugs, going back to his phone. Back to Namjoon.

Fifteen minutes later, they park behind a building that looks like a big, unassuming square. It’s familiar, likely a soundstage that’s rented out by a lot of different companies.

Yoongi lowers his sunglasses, leaning forward to peer through the windshield. “I’ve filmed here before, haven’t I?”

“Yeah, I think so. It was already saved in my GPS, so...” Taehyung gets out of the car, circling around the front to open Yoongi’s door. “Your majesty,” he says with an exaggerated bow.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, hoisting his bag over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up,” he says fondly, and he follows Taehyung to the set of metal doors on the corner of the building.

It seems pitch black when they step inside, the dark, windowless interior a stark contrast to the blinding sunlight. Yoongi lifts his sunglasses, sliding them up to rest in his hair, and something feels… off.

It doesn’t look much different from any of the other soundstages Yoongi has filmed at over the years, with high ceilings, concrete floors, and walled-off shooting areas. A man is wandering over to greet them, smiling wide and friendly, and anxiety creeps down Yoongi’s spine.

Still, everything is normal as Taehyung shakes the man’s hand. He’s the director, it turns out, and once he’s finished introducing himself to Taehyung, he reaches out for Yoongi.

“It’s so nice to finally have you here,” he says, gripping Yoongi’s hand between his own. He introduces himself as Robert, which is generic enough to sound familiar and does nothing to ease the budding nerves in Yoongi’s chest. It doesn’t help that Robert looks familiar: short and round, dark hair buzzed like a shadow against his head, thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

“Our fans have been dying to see you,” he adds, giving Yoongi’s hand a final pat before releasing him. It’s all Yoongi can do to keep himself from wiping his hand against his jeans. “We’re at the point where we’d start losing subscribers if we didn’t deliver.”

“Oh,” Yoongi manages, because what else is he supposed to say? When he shoots a glance at Taehyung, he only shrugs in response.

As Robert leads them to the set, he chats nonstop in a way that gets under Yoongi’s skin. His voice is just the wrong pitch, just the wrong speed, filling Yoongi up until he’s about to explode. He has to clench his jaw to keep from saying something, his fingertips pressing hard into the palms of his hands.

And then, when Robert opens the door to the set, Yoong is hit with the smell of sawdust. The dungeon is full of medieval torture devices that look purposefully old and worn. Everything is dark, meant to instill fear in subs and excitement in the viewers. Every chair, every table, and even the stocks against the wall are designed to look painful, all sharp edges and hard lines.

Yoongi doesn’t want to do this.

Not for any real reason. Nothing is going to hurt him. He’s not going to be the one tied on the rack or forced to sit on the sharp angle of the wooden horse. This is all normal—standard porn fare—and Yoongi can’t explain the pounding of his heart in his throat or the sweat trickling down his back.

“Our sub’s still getting ready,” Robert says, “but let me introduce you to the Dom you’ll be filming with.”

His hand lands on Yoongi’s lower back, leading him further into the room. The heat radiating from his palm feels oppressive, heavy even through the barrier of Yoongi’s shirt. He can feel himself walking faster to escape the touch, but Robert’s hand sticks to him like a magnet.

A man is standing near one of the tables, his back to Yoongi as he inspects the cuffs attached to each end of it. And even seeing him from behind strikes a painful chord in Yoongi’s chest, his mouth going dry.

This is wrong.

And Yoongi can’t even pretend it’s a nightmare because he’s still wearing his bell. He grips it in his fist as the other Dom turns around to greet him.

His eyes are piercing blue.

Yoongi wants to scream. Wants to look away. But he’s frozen, pinned under an icy gaze that he thought he’d forgotten. The Dom’s mouth is moving, but Yoongi doesn’t hear his name. The first thing that registers is:

“You’re not going to pass out on me this time, are you?”

The Dom laughs like it’s a big fucking joke. Robert laughs with him, and Yoongi just—stands there. He feels his lips twitch in defense, some small part of him wanting to join them on impulse, because the fact that they’re fucking laughing about the worst thing that’s ever happened to him is surreal.

They have to be talking about something else. It has to be a reference that flew over Yoongi’s head, or even some bizarre English colloquialism that he’s unfamiliar with, or—

“Wait a minute.” Taehyung steps forward, his hand catching Yoongi’s elbow as if to pull him away. He looks between Robert, the Dom, and then back to Robert, and something seems to click in his eyes. “You—I thought you looked familiar.” He looks down at his phone, likely scrolling through his schedule. “This company—I don’t have it down as one we’ve worked with before.”

Robert shrugs, a smug smile on his face that Yoongi kind of wants to punch right off of him. “New name, same folks. Our old one didn’t suit us anymore.”

And part of Yoongi still feels like this has to be some kind of prank, because why the fuck would the company that ruined his life suddenly rebrand? Why wouldn’t they say anything about it when they contacted Taehyung? Why—?

“Our fans have been demanding Suga content ever since our last shoot fell through,” Robert explains. “They probably won’t be too happy that you’re not subbing, but what can we do?” He shrugs again, as if ruining Yoongi’s life and stealing subbing from him is just an inconvenience that needs to be worked around.

Yoongi suddenly feels like he was lured here on purpose. Maybe it’s paranoid, insane, to think that they rebranded just because of him. Just to get him back into this room, standing directly across from the man whose hands he can still feel on his body. The man whose face he’d thought he’d forgotten, only to discover it seared on his soul like a brand.

He feels cornered, deceived, a writhing, anxious rage pounding through him, the bell gripped tight in his hand. And he can’t say anything, can’t do anything. All he can manage are a few staggering steps backward, stumbling over a chain that’s hooked to the floor.

“Something the matter?” Robert asks. As if he doesn’t know.

“Hang on,” Taehyung interjects, a charming smile on his face that makes Yoongi want to die. Of course he wants to make this work. It’s always about money with Taehyung. Always. “There seems to have been some kind of miscommunication. Why don’t we reschedule? I can get RM here tomorrow,” he says to Robert. “You might be familiar. He was Fan Favorite Dom at the—”

“The fans want Suga,” Robert interjects. “We’re already making a huge compromise by letting him be a Dominant in this. We’re not shooting this without him.”

Yoongi hates the way Robert is looking at him, eyes heavy and lips pursed, like Yoongi is nothing but a product. An incorrect meal set in front of him at a restaurant. Not a person with the right to say no.

Yoongi wants to say something. Wants to be able to look Robert in the eyes and tell him to go fuck himself, say something dramatic like, ‘then I guess you aren’t fucking shooting,’ then walk out with his head held high.

But there’s acid in his throat and an angry burn in his eyes. His mind is full of cotton-covered static, a pulsing roar in his ears. There’s no choice but to walk away, to jerk his arm out of Taehyung’s grasp and storm toward the door. He can’t let himself cry in front of the people that ruined his life—even if the tears are hot and angry.

“Fuck, okay,” Taehyung says, his voice fading as Yoongi puts distance between them, leaving him to negotiate with Robert. “Let’s just talk this out, okay? I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.”

Yoongi lets the door to the set slam closed behind him, storming to the metal door they entered through and shoving it open with a satisfying burst of strength. The sunlight feels like blades in his eyes, jerking his head back with a physical force, and at least Yoongi can blame the tears streaking down his face on that.

He grabs his sunglasses in one hand, pulling them back down onto his face with near-painful force, his free hand grappling for his cigarettes.

There’s a bench about ten feet down from the door, just barely in the shade of the building, and Yoongi has nowhere else to go. It won’t be long before the angle of the sun changes to capture him in a white-hot flash, but he has a few minutes at least.

The heat radiating from the metal siding makes him feel worse, the old wood of the bench catching against his clothes. He still feels trapped, even out here. His breaths are coming hard and fast, aching in his lungs, choking on tears and smoke.

His cigarette is half-gone by the time he calms down enough to dig his phone out of his pocket, wiping away stray tears with the heel of a shaky hand. There’s already a text waiting from Namjoon, and the notification alone draws a wounded sound from Yoongi’s throat.

Namjoon [14:04]
How’s the shoot going?

Yoongi stares down at the screen, an empty ache in his chest. This has nothing to do with anything—it’s not special. It’s probably just a vague, Namjoon-ish way to ask if he had an opportunity to put the plug in before filming. But it feels like somehow Namjoon knows Yoongi needs him. It’s just one little text, but it feels like a hand reaching out to catch him as he falls, stopping him just before he hits the ground.

Yoongi inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs as he replies.

Yoongi [14:21]
It’s not.

Namjoon [14:22]
What? Did it get canceled or something??

Or something. Yoongi doesn’t even know where to begin.

He thinks about Taehyung, scrambling to do damage control, to save his own reputation, even if Yoongi’s is unsalvageable. He thinks about Robert’s smug fucking face and the Dom that follows him into his nightmares. He thinks about the new wound bleeding fresh in his heart, a taunting echo that he won’t be able to forget: You’re not going to pass out on me this time, are you?

How often had they made fun of him for the Dom to even say that? For Robert to laugh like he knew exactly what it was about? Like this was all one big inside joke to them.

Namjoon [14:25]
Can I call you?

The anxiety is still buzzing like a thick cloud in Yoongi’s head, dulling his thoughts. It’s hard enough to even remember to type out a reply.

Yoongi [14:26]
Can’t talk

Namjoon [14:26]
“Cant talk” as in you’re busy??
Or like literally??

There’s no reason for that to be Yoongi’s breaking point, the thing that makes him slide his hand under his sunglasses as if he can press back the tears with sheer force, sharp breaths hitching through his teeth.

Namjoon has to know what he means. He has to. But knowing that Namjoon wants so badly for things to be different, for this to be a misunderstanding, for Yoongi to be having a good day—

It hurts.

It shouldn’t. Yoongi knows it shouldn’t. Having this whole day go to shit doesn’t mean he’s let Namjoon down in any particular way—Namjoon has nothing to gain one way or the other—but… Just the thought that someone out there wants him to be okay. Wants him to be happy. Maybe Yoongi forgot what it felt like.

He’s a product to Taehyung. A long-distance work friend to Jimin, someone he no longer exists to when they aren’t under the same roof.

They’re all he has. All he’s ever had. But he’s not their priority, and why should he be? They have their own lives. Their own goals. Jimin has Jungkook—whatever that means—he has no reason to think about Yoongi.

Yoongi’s phone buzzes in his hand, the repeated pulse of an incoming call. There’s no point, but Yoongi answers anyway, just because it’s Namjoon. Namjoon always understands.

There’s a second of silence after the line connects, a soft static on the other end when Yoongi lifts the phone to his ear.

“Oh,” Namjoon says after a moment, and the devastation in that one word knocks a shaky sob from Yoongi’s lungs. “Baby. Hey. Shit, are you okay? Can you text me?”

Yoongi pushes out a shaky breath as he pulls the phone away from his face to reopen their messages. He doesn’t know how to answer. He’s okay physically, nothing hurts, no one touched him—but he doesn’t feel okay.

Maybe he sits there for longer than he realizes, staring blankly at his phone, because Namjoon’s distant voice makes him jump. When he raises the phone back to his ear, Namjoon is saying, “I know it’s hard, Yoongi, I know. But I’m worried. I just need to know you’re safe.”

That, at least, Yoongi knows how to respond to.

Yoongi [14:37]
I’m safe

Namjoon exhales heavily, his breath a gentle static against Yoongi’s ear. “Okay. Okay, good.” They’re quiet for a moment, just listening to each other breathe, Yoongi’s panicked hitches of breath a staccatoed beat layered over Namjoon’s.

“I don’t know what happened,” Namjoon says finally. “If something went wrong on set, or—fuck, I guess it did, didn’t it?”

Yoongi [14:39]
Kind of

“Fuck,” Namjoon repeats. “I’m so sorry, Yoongi, I—I wish I was there with you. I don’t know if I could do anything to help, but… I don’t know. If being near you helped, I wouldn’t leave your side. I’d hold your hand if you wanted, or… Or squeeze you really tight, you know? And I know that doesn’t fix anything, but at least you wouldn’t have to be alone.”

It feels like it would fix everything.

Maybe it only seems that way because it’s impossible. After all, Namjoon can’t teleport here and sit by Yoongi’s side, hold him close and tight. Yoongi has never felt safer than he did in Namjoon’s bed after he panicked, Namjoon wrapped around him like a protective barrier, sturdy and strong.

He feels too loose without Namjoon’s arms around him. Like all the pieces of himself that had been sloppily glued together are slowly melting, collapsing in the heat. Wilting like a dying flower.

He leans forward, curling in on himself as he rests his elbows on his knees, face pressed into his free hand as if to hold back the violent surge of emotion building inside him.

“Yoongi…” There’s a waver in Namjoon’s voice, soft and barely detectable if not for the tiny way it cracked at the end. “I’m going to come to you, okay? I can be there tonight. I’ll book a flight right now.”

Yoongi is shaking his head, and it takes him a moment to realize Namjoon can’t see him.

Yoongi [14:42]
Dont
You dont have to
I want to go home

He has shoots scheduled for the rest of the week, but he can’t make himself do them. He can’t. The thought of taking his clothes off, making himself vulnerable in front of anyone other than Namjoon... The thought of acting out cold, violent scenes that are so different from the safe, careful dynamic he and Namjoon have built between them… It makes him feel sick.

How many subs has he shot with over the years now have nightmares about him? What if he sees one of them tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, and it breaks them the way he’s broken?

He wants Taehyung to take him back to the airport. He wants to get up and start walking, keep walking until he collapses, and see where he ends up. He wants to get a taxi and ride until his wallet is empty. He wants…

He wants to be in Namjoon’s arms. That’s really it, more than anything.

“Are you sure?” Namjoon asks. “I promise I can come. It’s not a big deal. I want to be with you.”

Yoongi’s heart wrenches, fresh tears burning in the corners of his eyes. Namjoon doesn’t know how that sounds. Doesn’t know how badly Yoongi wants to be with him—physically, emotionally, in every sense of the word.

Yoongi [14:44]
I’ll ask tae to take me back to the airport

It’s all he can manage, but it’s enough. There’s a soft sigh on the other end, then a nearby thump—like Namjoon dropped his forehead against the table.

“You shouldn’t have to fly alone.”

A cold dread twists in Yoongi’s chest. He hadn’t thought about what it would take to get home. He’ll likely be crammed on an overbooked flight, frazzled and anxious with the last-minute scheduling, likely to be set off at the slightest rumble of turbulence.

“Let me come to you,” Namjoon says, firm. Confident and in control. “We can fly back together tonight if you want, or we can take a few days. Whatever you need. Just let me take care of you. Please.”

And maybe it’s because Yoongi really doesn’t want to fly alone. Or maybe it’s just that submitting to Namjoon is comforting, letting someone else take control so Yoongi doesn’t have to.

There’s a familiar crash of metal-on-metal as the soundstage door is pushed open. Yoongi glances up to see Taehyung make his way out of the building, flinching back against the light.

Yoongi [14:46]
Ok
I have to go
Tae is here

“He left you—?” Namjoon starts, incredulous, as Yoongi gets up to wave Taehyung down. “Okay, no—I’m sorry. You’re with him right now?”

Yoongi [14:47]
Yes

“Okay,” Namjoon breathes. Taehyung wanders over, opening his mouth to speak, but Yoongi shakes his head, holding up a finger for him to wait. He looks exhausted, irritated, but he only nods, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I’ll text you when I have my flight booked,” Namjoon says. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Yoongi [14:48]
K

He hesitates, biting at his lip, and then adds:

Yoongi [14:48]
Thank you

When the call ends, Taehyung only nods toward the car. “Come on,” he says gently, picking up Yoongi’s bag from the bench.

They don’t talk to each other—they hardly look at each other—on the way to the car. Once they’re in their seats and Taehyung turns the engine on, rumbling gently under the refreshing roar of the air conditioner, they only sit there, the silence heavy between them.

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung says finally, and Yoongi looks at him in surprise. Out of all the things he expected Taehyung to lead with, that wouldn’t have been it. His fists are clenched tight on the steering wheel, and there's a deep line in his forehead, his brows knit behind his sunglasses. “I should have… There are so many things I should have done differently. I should have done better research on this company. I should have gone with my fucking gut and turned them down. I never would have thought…” he trails off, biting his lip.

For the first time since he became Yoongi’s agent, he looks his age. It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that Taehyung is younger than him. That he doesn’t know what he’s doing in life any more than Yoongi does.

Taehyung steels himself, straightening his shoulders, and finally turns to look at him. Yoongi can’t see his eyes through his sunglasses, but there’s still something sincere in his expression. The professional facade is gone, and all that’s left behind is Yoongi’s friend. His quiet, gentle friend.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, with more conviction. “I fucked up. I never should have put you in a situation where you had to be in the same room as those assholes again.”

There’s a tightness in Yoongi’s throat that matches the burn in his eyes, his lips trembling where they’re pressed together in a hard line.

“I know you can’t respond to me right now,” Taehyung goes on, “and that’s okay. You don’t have to—now, or ever. I just want you to know I’m sorry. This—all of this—is on me. You did nothing wrong.”

It’s nice to hear, even if Yoongi did everything wrong. This was his chance to face his fear, to take back control and rewrite the memories etched in his mind.

Instead, he proved how weak he is—to them and himself. He gave them something new to make fun of him for: tucking his tail and running off, unable to speak up and articulate his concerns like the adult he’s supposed to be, all because of… What, exactly?

Sexual assault, Namjoon had called it. Yoongi hadn’t been consenting, that much is true, but that doesn’t make it assault or rape. Even letting those words into his mind fills him with shame, like he didn’t earn them, like he’s appropriating terms reserved for people who have really been hurt.

He’s a bad person. A dramatic, selfish one. And maybe it didn’t matter so much when it was just him, torturing himself with nightmares and overexaggerated memories, but it’s different now. He’s become a black hole destroying the stars around him, dragging them in and shredding them apart.

It’s a wonder that Namjoon isn’t sick of him yet, even though he’s forced to comfort someone who has no right to be afraid, who consistently ruins their scenes. Forced now to waste his time, to buy a plane ticket he doesn’t need, just to fly out here for Yoongi’s sake. Because Yoongi couldn’t string together the words to communicate that everything was fine, couldn’t be mature enough to handle this himself.

And Taehyung, always guilty and walking on eggshells over nothing, tense and pale as he drives them back to the house in heavy silence. He always tries to make lighthearted conversation, even when they bicker, desperate to pretend everything is okay. Because facing problems isn’t good for business. Acknowledging the fact that he has a defective product for sale puts him in an uncomfortable position.

But now, there’s nothing left to say.

Yoongi lets his forehead rest against the window, his face angled away from Taehyung as he presses a hand over his mouth to hide the shakiness of his breaths. This was his chance to fix everything, to end this for everyone. But he can feel himself spiraling faster, harder, the black hole expanding into a gaping maw that can’t sustain itself, unstable and hurtling toward an explosion.

He feels like he lied. Like he was playing this up for attention and it got out of control. Like he stormed out because he’s a diva, just as Taehyung said. He must have embraced the title and ran with it, too immature and stupid to think of the consequences.

Robert is probably a nice person. The Dom, too. It was an accident—Yoongi knows what happened to him was an accident—and they may have been extending an olive branch by offering him another chance. He probably insulted them, hurt them. He definitely cost them time and money. The Dom and the sub won’t get paid today, nor will the crew, even though they had nothing to do with Yoongi’s bullshit.

Even the comment about Yoongi passing out... Maybe it wasn’t meant to be cruel. Maybe it was meant to be lighthearted, a way to show that it’s not a big deal and no one is judging him for it. Water under the bridge. And Yoongi—dramatic, diva Yoongi—took it as a personal affront, immediately jumping to the conclusion that they care enough about him to remember him and make fun of him.

He doesn’t realize they’ve reached the house until Taehyung opens his door, dipping down slightly to look at him. “Want to go inside?” Taehyung asks, a gentleness in his tone that makes the shame in Yoongi’s chest burn even hotter.

He nods, unbuckling his seatbelt to slide out of the car, and he can feel himself not talking. Feel the silence in his mind, his internal monologue reduced to vague images and feelings that he can never hope to communicate.

Right now, even that feels fake. There’s nothing physically wrong, nothing that would actually prevent him from speaking. It’s just another instinctive, impulsive way to get attention, something he does so habitually that he’s convinced himself it’s a disorder. Something that can’t be helped.

That’s true for all of his so-called problems, isn’t it?

Freaking out on planes just to get somebody to look at him, cater to him, and give him special treatment. Refusing to go into restaurants as a way to control people, providing arbitrary, made-up reasons why one restaurant is acceptable but not another. One thing after another, after another, until Yoongi turned himself into a dysfunctional shadow that everyone has to tiptoe around.

He’s embarrassed, sickness churning in his throat as Taehyung guides him into the house with a gentle hand on his back.

From the kitchen comes Jimin’s voice, loud and perky, echoing through the house, “Yoongi! The love of my life!” Taehyung shakes his head at him sharply, raising a stern finger to his lips when Jimin bounds into view. The smile drops off of Jimin’s face in an instant, worry shining in his eyes.

Here it is. All the attention Yoongi could ever ask for. He must have wanted this at some point in time for it to go this far, but right now, he wishes no one was looking at him. Wishes Taehyung would stop touching him, wishes Jimin hadn’t returned to the kitchen with a quiet, “I’ll make some tea, okay?”

Yoongi doesn’t want tea. He doesn’t want attention. He just wants to hide in his bed and forget he exists.

He steps away from Taehyung’s touch. His body feels hard to control, heavy and awkward, but he manages to maneuver around Jimin’s abandoned luggage at the bottom of the stairs to start making his way up.

“Yoongi,” Taehyung says, quiet and careful, “why don’t you stay down here?”

Yoongi tightens his grip on the stair rail, tears burning his eyes. It’s only then that he realizes he hadn’t even taken off his sunglasses, but now he can’t. Because he doesn’t want them to see.

Why doesn’t he stay? Isn’t it more dramatic if he leaves? Wouldn’t it just give Taehyung and Jimin a reason to talk about him, worry over him? Is that what he wants? He’s so deep in his head that he doesn’t know. None of his thoughts feel real, everything blurring together until he can’t tell the difference between what he really feels and what he’s doing to act out.

If he digs through the tears and refusal to speak, the shaking and the drama—he’s okay. He knows he’s okay. No one touched him, no one hurt him. He walked on set, decided he didn’t want to participate, and left. It’s no big deal, nothing he hasn’t done before.

“Yoongi.” Taehyung is suddenly behind him on the landing, voice soft in his ear, fingers gentle across his shoulders. “Can you hear me?”

God—of course he can. He nods, knocking loose a few tears, just because he can’t let Taehyung think that feigning deafness is his newest tactic. He wipes the tears from his cheeks with impatient fingers, pulling in a shaky breath.

He has no reason to be acting like this.

He pries his fingers off the railing to grab his phone from his pocket, unlocking it to access his notes. ‘Gonna take a bath,’ he types, then holds it up so Taehyung can see the screen.

He wants to be alone. He wants to wash away the feelings of guilt and shame, the clammy touch of Robert’s hand.

Taehyung’s eyes flick across the screen, then shift to Yoongi’s face. He looks like he wants to say something, parting his lips only to catch one between his teeth, studying Yoongi’s eyes.

“Okay,” Taehyung says finally, looking away. “Jimin and I will be down here if you need us.”

Yoongi nods—that’s the only thing he can do to escape this conversation. He makes his way up the stairs, ignoring the feeling of Taehyung’s eyes on his back. It’s bad enough that Jimin knows something is wrong. It’s even worse that Taehyung plans on staying. He has better things to do than sit around here while Yoongi hides.

And that’s all he’s really doing, he knows, as he starts filling the tub in the en-suite. This is his sanctuary, one of the few places he feels safe, but his hands still tremble as he unbuttons his shirt.

The dull pain in his head keeps him from turning on music, his little toiletry bag with sheet masks and bath bombs buried too deep in his luggage to be bothered with. And it’s not until he sinks into the warm water that he lets himself cry.

He feels stupid for it, weak, but at least no one is here to see.

The tears come in waves. There’s the initial burst of anxiety and reawakened fear that he buries in his hands, then washes off his face as if to hide the evidence. It’s followed almost immediately by shame—for the way he’s acting, the way he’s made everyone worry, for being upset over nothing in the first place. And he thinks it’s over when those tears have dried, only to be hit with a fresh wave of anger.

It’s not fucking fair.

He’s been trying so hard, making so much progress with Namjoon. He gets up and fucking fights every day despite the nightmares. Despite the anxiety that tries to freeze him in place and steals his voice, despite the way everything good in his life seemed to fall apart in front of him. He hasn’t been allowed to live one day without thinking about the assholes who stole everything he enjoyed, and all this time, they’ve been growing their company, expanding, never giving him a second thought.

Until now. Luring him back in for no reason at all. And without doing anything, hardly touching him or saying a word to him, Yoongi feels like he’s right back where he was the day it happened.

And he hates it.

A spiteful voice inside of him tells him that he shouldn’t give them the satisfaction of breaking him down, that hiding away and being afraid is letting them win. But who fucking cares? They already won. They already got to see him run away. His reaction now won’t change that.

If he wants to sit and fucking brood, he’ll sit and fucking brood.

He rests his head on the edge of the tub, staring up at the ceiling with aching eyes. He’s exhausted, tired of being scared, tired of everything.

The sound of his phone vibrating in the pocket of his jeans makes him sit up, grimacing at the tension in his neck. Even laying his head back was a mistake, a little luxury he’s not allowed to have.

He wipes his hand on a nearby towel and reaches over the edge, pawing at his jeans until he frees his phone. And his breath catches, a small spark of hope lighting up inside him when he sees Namjoon’s name.

The spark fades just as quickly when he sees the message.

Namjoon [16:03]
The earliest I can get there is tomorrow evening

Yoongi can only stare at the message, his heart in his stomach. He didn’t want Namjoon to come. He felt terrible forcing Namjoon to come. But the fact that he won’t be seeing Namjoon tonight hits hard, the pain tight in his lungs.

His phone buzzes in his hand as a barrage of new messages comes in.

Namjoon [16:04]
I’m so sorry Yoongi I really tried
I even went to the airport to see if they could squeeze me onto a flight last minute or idk
The best I could find was a flight that had a 5 hour layover in LA but it doesn’t leave until 8pm so I wouldn’t get there until tomorrow anyway
Fuck maybe I should just do that one
I could probably be there before you wake up

That, finally, seems to awaken something in Yoongi’s mind. Like placing the needle down on a record that had been spinning soundlessly, his thoughts are suddenly real and tangible, able to be articulated.

Yoongi [16:06]
No
Don’t come
Especially don’t do the fucking LA thing, jesus

Namjoon [16:07]
Are you sure??
I really don’t mind

It’s strange how Yoongi can trust Namjoon with his safety, mental and physical. How he lets Namjoon gently push his limits, trusting him to never go too far, to stop before Yoongi falls.

But with something as simple as this, Yoongi doesn’t believe him. Namjoon is perfectly willing, Yoongi has no doubt that Namjoon would come if asked, but he’s only human. He would be sitting around LAX for hours, thinking about how this wasn’t worth it, regretting his offer to come in the first place. It would give him plenty of time to think about all the shit he does for Yoongi and how much Yoongi doesn’t deserve it.

While they’re lying to each other, he might as well try to make Namjoon feel better.

Yoongi [16:09]
I’m sure
I’m okay now

Namjoon [16:09]
Can we talk about what happened?
I’m worried about you

Yoongi bites at his thumbnail, malleable from the water and aching against his teeth. Talking to Namjoon has always helped more than it hurt. Always. Even if he can’t be in Namjoon’s arms, he can at least have the comfort of his voice.

Instead of typing a reply, Yoongi switches to his contacts and taps Namjoon’s name.

Namjoon answers before Yoongi even hears it ring.

“Yoongi,” Namjoon breathes. He sounds exhausted. Has he been stressing over flights all this time? Hours of scrambling around on Yoongi's behalf, while Yoongi himself has been relaxing in the bath?

“Hi,” Yoongi says, tight and small. He sounds just as terrible as he feels, even to his own ears.

“Hey. What happened today?”

Yoongi stares down at his knees through the water, extra pink from the heat. “Nothing.” When Namjoon sighs, Yoongi adds, “Really. Nothing. That’s—I walked out before we even started.”

“That’s okay,” Namjoon says. “You’re allowed to have boundaries. I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself, even if people were disappointed.”

Yoongi swallows thickly, his throat sticking to itself like sandpaper. “It’s not that. I mean—fuck, everyone’s upset with me. Tae stayed inside forever doing damage control, and I just… I couldn’t.”

“That’s okay,” Namjoon says again, gentler. “What kind of scene was it? Do you want to talk about it?”

“It wasn’t even about the scene. It was just—it was with the last Dom I shot with.”

Namjoon is quiet for a moment, lining the pieces up, and Yoongi can almost hear the moment it clicks for him. “You don’t mean… The one who—”

“Who ruined subbing for me, yeah,” Yoongi says quickly. Before Namjoon can call it something else, stick a label on it that feels like glass under Yoongi’s skin.

“What the fuck. Jesus, Yoongi, fuck—I’m sorry. How did that even… Why would Taehyung book another scene with them?”

“It wasn’t on purpose.” The words taste bitter on Yoongi’s tongue, a dull burn in his eyes. It almost feels worse knowing that no one has ever done anything to him intentionally. He’s just the victim of accident after accident, misunderstanding after misunderstanding. His life is in fucking shambles because he’s too irrelevant to look out for.

“They were under a different name,” Yoongi goes on. “They requested me specifically, and I just… I wanted to feel wanted. But it wasn’t even because they liked me as a Dominant. They only wanted me because their subscribers were fucking pissed that they never got the sub video they were promised, or whatever.”

“They asked you to sub?” There’s an angry edge to Namjoon’s voice that makes Yoongi feel oddly safe.

“No. They were willing to compromise by casting me as a Dom. But I just… It was the same director. The other Dom was there, too. We were going to—like, a threesome. Just looking at him was bad enough. I can’t explain it. His face…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Namjoon says gently, and Yoongi rubs an exhausted hand over his face. He probably couldn’t explain even if he wanted to.

In the immediate aftermath of the original scene, Yoongi couldn’t remember what the Dom looked like. He was nothing but a blurred shape of a person, a dark presence behind Yoongi with a blank shadow of a face. Yoongi didn’t think he’d ever be able to remember it again. He thought he didn’t get a good enough look, that he spent so much time face-down that he never got a chance to see who was touching him. He used to be haunted by the thought of walking past him in the grocery store, sitting next to him on a plane, and never knowing.

But seeing him again—Yoongi has always known. Will always know. And it’s almost worse now, because instead of being a face that disappears in the moments after waking from a nightmare, Yoongi can revisit the memory of what happened with that fucking face in his mind. Those fucking eyes.

“You know what he said to me?” Yoongi’s voice comes out thin and quiet, forced through the tightness of his throat. “He asked me if I was going to pass out on him again. And then they laughed—him and the director—as if I’m a fucking joke—”

“No,” Namjoon says, sharp and firm. “No, no—fuck that. Yoongi, what happened to you wasn’t a joke. You never should have been in a room with them again. You don’t deserve any of this.”

It feels like he deserves it somehow. Like this is all the result of being attention-starved and dramatic.

“I shouldn’t be acting like this. They didn’t do anything to me.”

“What are you talking about?” Namjoon asks. “Yoongi, they did something terrible to you. They might not have laid a hand on you today, but that doesn’t undo what happened in the past. That doesn’t change the fact that they didn’t even see fit to give you an apology, even though they made it pretty damn clear they remembered what happened.”

Yoongi sighs, gazing up at the ceiling. “I think an apology would make me feel worse,” he says quietly. He bites at his lip for a moment, grinding his teeth against it until it stings. “I wouldn’t be able to forgive them. And then I’d have to wonder why I’m no better than a fucking child with a grudge when they were mature enough to own up to their mistakes.”

“Those are two separate things. Owning up to their mistake and apologizing doesn’t mean you have to forgive them. The only thing it means is that they’re aware of what they did wrong and will do better in the future,” Namjoon says. “What they did to you was permanent, something you can’t forget. Your anger is allowed to be permanent, too.”

Yoongi hums in acknowledgment, splaying his fingers on top of the water, pressing gently to feel the surface tension. “They’re not going to do better,” he says. “They don’t fucking care. If they haven’t already ruined another sub’s life—fuck…” He moves his hand from the water and rubs it over his face. “I should have talked to the sub that was there. I should have let them know—”

“You were panicking,” Namjoon says gently. “You couldn’t be expected to think about that.”

It just feels terrible, the thought of this same fucking company ruining submissive after submissive, going through them one by one as if they’re disposable. Each sub walking into this thinking it’s a good opportunity, eager to grow their careers, only to be unable to sleep afterward. Unable to bottom. Unable to do the things they love.

How many other companies out there are just like this one? For all the good ones Yoongi has shot with, there must be just as many that don’t care.

“It makes me think about that thing you said,” Yoongi murmurs, “about porn BDSM shoots being safer. Expecting companies to have experts on set to look out for this kind of thing.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I said that to you—”

“No, it’s fine.” Yoongi lets his eyes slip closed, blocking out the low light. “It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? Companies should start doing that. Make it standard practice. So if a sub walks onto a set without anyone on hand to look out for them, they would know… I don’t know.” He sighs. “Who’s going to pay to hire more employees if they don’t have to?”

“Yeah.” There’s something soft and sad in Namjoon’s voice. “Maybe it’s idealistic, but that’s how change happens, right? It’s good that you’re thinking about this. It could be a cause to put your energy into.”

Yoongi snorts. “And use the stage at the porn awards to spread the word?”

“Sure. Why not? You’d have a captive audience that knows exactly what you’re talking about.”

It feels kind of nice to think about in the warm safety of the tub, Namjoon’s voice soothing in his ear, but Yoongi already knows he’s not going to do anything about it. He sighs. “That’s assuming I win another award at all. I probably won’t at this point.”

“You will,” Namjoon says, and he sounds so certain that it catches Yoongi off guard. “So many people love you. I—can I tell you something?”

Yoongi’s heart catches, stutters. “What is it?”

“Nothing bad. It’s just—it’s funny. I know you didn’t like me much at first—”

“Fuck, I’m so—”

“It’s okay,” Namjoon interjects. “It’s okay, I get it. I really do. You don’t know bitter competition until you get into the cutthroat world of commercial jingles,” he adds teasingly. “Every time someone new breaks through, we’re all just—ugh.” Yoongi can almost imagine him reaching out as if to strangle his invisible competition, and Yoongi huffs out a laugh.

“But that’s not the point,” Namjoon goes on. “What I was going to say was I’ve had so many people—like, other actors, a director or two, and lots of people online—tell me that I didn’t deserve to win Fan Favorite Dom. It’s pretty brutal online, actually. Some people are like, ‘I don’t know who voted for you, because everyone I know voted for Suga’.”

Yoongi’s heart sinks. While he wasted time being angry at Namjoon, hating him for no reason, Namjoon was being harassed by Yoongi’s few remaining fans. It’s even harder to believe that Namjoon never resented him, was never unkind to him. He only reached out over and over no matter how many times Yoongi pushed him away.

“I’m so sorry.” It comes out barely a whisper, wrecked. He’s too fucking exhausted to cry again, but the ache is there anyway, behind his eyes and in his throat.

“Hey, hey, no,” Namjoon starts, quick and urgent. “Hang on—that’s not what I—that’s not a bad thing, don’t you see? Everyone loves you. They voted for you and took it personally when you didn’t win, that’s—”

“That’s fucking awful.” Yoongi sniffs sharply, wiping at his eyes. “I mean, I get it. I know what you’re trying to say, but... Fuck, I was so terrible to you. You did nothing wrong, and you were being mistreated by me and the people who voted for me. I never—I didn’t know. Why don’t you hate me?”

“I told you. I’m your fan. I voted for you too, you know. I never expected to win anything at all—not even the newcomer thing. I just showed up to be in the same room as you. All I ever wanted was the chance to meet you.”

The memory is months old now, faded under the haze of anger and alcohol Yoongi had been consumed with, but it’s still there: Namjoon watching him, waving at him. Keeping a polite distance while Yoongi and Jimin talked, making his way over when an opportunity presented itself.

And Yoongi couldn’t even manage to shake his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yoongi—”

“Please,” Yoongi cuts in. “Please just—let me. I should have apologized to you months ago. I was too scared, I guess, that you would suddenly realize how terrible I am and give up on me, and I’m fucking sorry for that, too. But I just—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

There’s a silence just long enough to make Yoongi nervous, to make him pull his phone away from his face to make sure Namjoon hadn’t hung up on him. He would have every right to, but the call time is still steadily counting up.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, too,” Namjoon says, gentle and quiet. “You have no idea how much you mean to me.”

Yoongi doesn’t know. Maybe he’ll never know. But he doesn’t have to know exactly how much he means to Namjoon to realize it’s not enough—not enough to go beyond the platonic scenes they do together. It’s a different kind of friendship than any Yoongi’s ever had before—he trusts Namjoon more than he’s ever trusted anyone—but that’s all it is. A friendship.

It doesn’t have to be any more than that. Yoongi’s still grateful for every fucking second, and he would never dream of ruining it by telling Namjoon the truth.

He feels better by the time he finally emerges from the bathroom, his head clearer. It’s not until he goes downstairs that the mood changes, a heavy, solemn silence waiting for him. As if he’d just walked into a funeral.

Taehyung and Jimin are sitting across from each other at the table, their low conversation tapering out when Yoongi takes the last step from the stairs.

“Hi Yoongi,” Jimin says, smiling, and it almost sounds normal. But it’s too soft, like he's afraid Yoongi will fall apart if he speaks too loudly. Even though the opposite may be true. “Do you want some tea?”

“Sure.” Yoongi tries to keep his voice level, normal, approaching the table to take a seat. Still—he can feel his anxiety trying to respond to the silence, drag him down, make him quiet and withdrawn because Jimin and Taehyung expect him to be.

Taehyung lays a hand on his knee, squeezing it gently as Jimin wanders into the kitchen. “Are you okay? You sound better. I mean, you’re talking.”

“I’m fine.” Yoongi pulls a cigarette out of the pack he’d rescued from his duffle bag, and Taehyung doesn’t even try to stop him.

“Here.” Jimin leans over his shoulder to place a steaming mug on the table, pressing a kiss to Yoongi’s cheek in the process.

Yoongi wonders what he knows. What Taehyung told him. Keeping Jimin from pitying him had been a sort of personal triumph; the last thing he needs is for their relationship to become strained, tainted by buzzwords and sensitive landmines.

The silence that falls over the three of them is awkward, Yoongi’s lips around the filter loud enough to make him self-conscious. He almost stubs the cigarette out to keep from making noise, but it’s soothing enough that he can’t quite force himself to. At least he has something to do with his hands.

It’s Jimin, unsurprisingly, who finally can’t stand it anymore. “How are you feeling about the rest of this week? You and I have a shoot tomorrow, and Tae made it sound like you’re pretty booked…”

They’ve been talking about him.

It’s not a surprise, but it makes Yoongi uncomfortable anyway. Maybe they planned this—for Jimin to broach the topic so it doesn’t sound like Taehyung is pressuring him to keep to his schedule.

Yoongi shifts in his chair, lowering his eyes. “I want to go home. I don’t want to—I can’t. Not right now.”

He could at least pull off the shoot with Jimin. He knows Jimin. He trusts him. Jimin will communicate with him, and everything will work out the way it’s supposed to. But…

For once, the thought of a camera makes him nervous. The memory of an unblinking eye on him as he struggles for breath, wanting to stop, feels sharp and new in his mind. The footage is still out there, forgotten on a hard drive—the worst moment of Yoongi’s life captured forever.

Even if he’s just with Jimin, he doesn’t trust himself to not break down. To not panic or cry or freeze up. The less he can be filmed right now, the better. He just needs to collect himself, get his shit together. He needs time to force the bad memories back into the box they fell out of and push them back onto the dark, dusty shelf in the corner of his mind where they belong.

“I thought you might say that,” Taehyung replies, nodding. He’s already tapping away on his phone. “I found a flight back to Reno for tonight. I can go ahead and book it if you want.”

Yoongi nods, his eyes fixed on the table. The thought of flying alone makes anxiety whisper in his chest once more, and he aches when he imagines how Namjoon could have been there with him, holding his hand and keeping him sane.

Still. He could never ask Namjoon to go out of his way for him, eight-hour flight or not. Flying to Vegas specifically to pick him up, only to turn around and go home is just… It’s too much. Knowing that doesn’t make the empty space in his heart hurt any less.

He’ll tough it out the way he always does. If he breaks down and makes a fool of himself, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Taehyung drives him to the airport a few hours later, then walks him to the counter to get his boarding pass. He guides him toward security with a gentle hand on his shoulder, then sits down with him at the gate.

Sits down with him at the gate.

Yoongi blinks out of his daze. “You’re not supposed to be back here.”

Taehyung smiles softly, lifting up a boarding pass. “I’ll have a hard time getting on the plane if I’m not.”

“I—what?”

A gentle hand lands on top of his. “I can’t make you fly alone. You’ve been through enough today, don’t you think?”

Yoongi’s grip tightens around the bottle of Xanax in his fist, the edges of the cap digging into the curve of his finger. A small pain that reminds him this is real, that he’s really here.

That Taehyung is here.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.” Taehyung pulls his hand away so Yoongi can take his preflight pill. “I haven’t been to Reno in a while. It’ll be nice.”

Yoongi wonders if Taehyung is making the trip to see Namjoon. He’d mentioned him to Robert; maybe they worked something out.

“I—about today,” Yoongi starts. “I shouldn’t have—I should have just done the scene.”

“No way.” Taehyung sits up straighter, professional and in control, but there’s still something soft in his eyes. “Yoongi, I wouldn’t have let you even if you wanted to. Not once we realized who they were.”

Yoongi lowers his eyes, tucking the pill bottle back into the front pocket of his duffle bag just for something to do with his hands. “What happened?” he asks, pulling the zipper closed with deliberate slowness so he doesn’t have to sit up and look at Taehyung.

“They’re horrible people. They were threatening to sue for breach of contract—”

Yoongi sits up sharply. “What?”

“Don’t worry,” Taehyung says quickly. “They’re full of shit. Your contract—everyone I represent—you guys have a clause in there that says you can back out for any reason. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

Yoongi hesitates, biting at his lip. “What about you?”

“I’ve been blacklisted.” Taehyung shrugs. “They don’t want to work with me or anyone I represent ever again. The feeling is mutual.”

It sounds lighthearted. Taehyung doesn’t look like he cares. But… He has to care on some level. People in the porn industry talk to each other. If word starts going around that Taehyung’s actors—Yoongi specifically—are backing out for no reason, wasting time and money to the point that it was worth blacklisting them…

Yoongi’s career is over. It feels like it’s been falling apart in front of his eyes all year. He could feel it coming and blamed it on Namjoon, but... In the end, the fault is all his own.

“I should have just shot the fucking scene.” He rakes a trembling hand through his hair, sighing. “Everyone would have been better off if I could have made it through this.”

“You wouldn’t have been.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yoongi can see Taehyung turn his entire body toward him, facing him directly. Yoongi can’t make himself look back.

“As your agent, it’s my job to protect you,” Taehyung says. “But… even more than that, you’re my friend. I want you to be successful and happy, and”—he draws in a shaky breath—“I let you down. I’ve let you down so many times. And I keep feeling like I can undo it if I can just… If I find a better opportunity for you, one that’s so good that it distracts you from… But all I did was give myself a blind spot. I failed to do my research because all I could see was their followers clamoring for you. I thought it would make you happy.” His voice breaks at the end, and Yoongi lifts his head to see Taehyung glaring up at the ceiling, blinking hard against the shine in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Taehyung adds. He steels himself, wiping his eyes before he faces Yoongi again. “I can’t say it enough. But saying it doesn’t do a thing to help.”

And this, all of this—Yoongi only knows it’s real because of the bell on his wrist and the quiet, chemical calm easing into his mind. He never expected to hear these words, not from Taehyung. The thought of him being motivated by anything other than money is foreign, unexpected, but…

It makes more sense than selling out his friends for his own gain.

God, what was Yoongi thinking? He knew it wasn’t Taehyung’s fault—he never blamed him in that way—but he’d always believed that the oversight had come from greed.

More than ever, he feels like an asshole.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Yoongi says, his voice tight and quiet, almost lost in the static murmuring of the crowded airport. “You couldn’t have known—especially not the first time. It’s no one’s fault.”

And maybe that’s the real truth. The blame falls on the company for failing to provide a safe environment, for not making accommodations for subs who lose their ability to communicate. But Taehyung, Yoongi, even the Dom himself—maybe none of them did anything wrong.

But accidents can still hurt. The damage they cause can still be permanent, life-altering.

Yoongi doesn’t know if it helps or hurts to know that Robert is a raging fucking asshole, threatening to sue over this. It makes it easier to blame him, giving Yoongi a target for all his pain and anger. At the same time, it keeps Yoongi on edge, nervous, knowing that there’s someone out there who likely hates him and wants to see him fall. Someone who never broke the law, so there can be no sense of justice. No cage to throw him in that would keep Yoongi—and every other submissive in the world—safe.

There’s nothing Yoongi can do but wait, live every day hoping that Robert doesn’t pop out from the bushes and do something to make his life worse than it already is.

Their boarding group is called before they can say anything else, but Yoongi doesn’t know if there’s anything left to say. Still, he takes Taehyung’s hand as they move to stand in line, lacing their fingers together and holding on tight.

“I never blamed you,” he says, just because he thinks Taehyung needs to hear it. From the way Taehyung seems to deflate against Yoongi’s side, cheek coming to rest on his shoulder, maybe he needed it more than Yoongi will ever know.

Yoongi doesn’t realize until they’re seated that he and Taehyung have never actually flown together before. It’s not the same as flying with Namjoon—he doesn’t have the same big, sturdy presence Namjoon has—but it’s still nice. Nice to have someone there to hold his hand when they hit turbulence, someone who unconcernedly chews gum and never looks up from his phone games throughout the entire thing.

It’s strangely reassuring. Yoongi must not be in danger if Taehyung doesn’t even flinch.

And when they land, Yoongi feels… okay. Shaken and tense as always, but he’s okay.

He could have made it alone—he always does—but he doesn’t think he’d be standing here, next to his car, with full control of his voice and a clear head if Taehyung hadn’t been with him.

It’s already late, the sky a deep, inky blue. Street lamps illuminate the parking lot, clouds of bugs floating in the white glow, making the light seem to flicker.

“I don’t know if you booked a hotel already,” Yoongi says, clutching his keys in his hand, “but you can stay with me if you need to.”

“Next time,” Taehyung says, smiling his boxy smile. “I need to get back.”

Yoongi blinks at him. “Back?” It takes a moment for the words to register. “To Vegas?”

“Duty calls. I have to be there for Jimin tomorrow.”

“I didn’t think…” Yoongi trails off, a realization setting in that makes his chest hurt. There is exactly one flight from Reno to Vegas tonight—one that Yoongi already discussed at length with Namjoon. “Tell me it’s not the one with the layover in LA.”

Taehyung’s smile softens, his brows pulling together. “How did you know?” Then he huffs, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms petulantly. “Did Jimin tell you? I told him not to fucking tell you—”

Whatever else he planned on saying is lost when Yoongi crumples against him. And it’s probably the first time they’ve ever hugged, an awkward fumbling of arms as they try to figure it out.

“Thank you,” Yoongi manages, his voice muffled against his own elbow, his arms wrapped tight around Taehyung’s shoulders.

He would never ask anyone to make a flight like this for him—to land, walk Yoongi to his car, and then take off again—for nothing. But he didn’t ask. Taehyung is here, standing in the parking lot and hugging Yoongi tight, because he wants to be. Because being here was important enough to book the most inconvenient fucking flight in the world to get back home in time, with no intention of ever telling him.

“I’m always here for you,” Taehyung says, rubbing his hand up and down Yoongi’s spine. “I hope you know that.”

Yoongi thinks he’s always known. But maybe, for the first time ever, he can’t talk himself out of believing it.

It’s not long before Taehyung has to go back inside and get himself back through security. Yoongi sits in his car for a long time, his mind racing and strangely empty all at once.

He’s a bad friend. Maybe he always has been. And maybe some of that is because of his anxiety, his irrational fears making him assume the worst from everyone, but that’s not an excuse. It shouldn’t have taken something this big, this dramatic, for him to accept that Taehyung cares about him. Not when Taehyung has been here for him from the start of his career.

He sighs, turning the key to start the engine. Fear ruins everything for him. It always has. And he’s fucking sick of it.

It never takes him long to get home from here, the bulk of the drive—a whopping four minutes of it—spent on the freeway. It feels like he’s just merged into traffic when he sees his exit come into view, the green of the sign seeming to glow in the headlights.

He adjusts his hands on the wheel, feeling himself start to drift to the right. But he never slows, never turns on his signal, and zooms past his exit before he has a chance to talk himself out of it.

There’s one more thing he wants to do. One person he wants to see.

One fear he wants to overcome.

Chapter Text

Namjoon hardly seems surprised when he finds Yoongi on his doorstep. And maybe it’s just a testament to how strange their relationship is, how understanding Namjoon is, that he lets Yoongi in without a word.

“I’m sorry for showing up like this,” Yoongi says.

Namjoon cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head. “Don’t be. I’m happy you’re here. I guess the flight went okay?”

“Yeah. Um, Taehyung came with me, so…”

“Oh!” Namjoon looks over Yoongi’s shoulder at the closed door, as if Taehyung will somehow manifest there.

“He’s not here. He just… he just came for me. So I wouldn’t have to fly alone.”

The look on Namjoon’s face mirrors the feeling that’s been clenching in Yoongi’s chest: fond and overwhelmed, softened with sheer relief. Gratitude. “He cares about you so much,” Namjoon says. “Everyone does.”

Not everyone. Not enough.

The unexpected magnitude of his feelings for Namjoon is another thing that scares Yoongi. But he’s tired of being afraid, and Namjoon is the only person he trusts.

“Even you?” Yoongi asks.

Namjoon steps closer, and even with the space between them, it’s comforting. Safe.

“Especially me.”

Yoongi nods. “Will you help me?” It’s hard, but he makes himself hold Namjoon’s gaze, searching eyes. There’s a subtle shift in the energy between them, and Yoongi can feel himself drifting closer. “I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

He expects Namjoon to ask what he means, even as a gentle hand rises to cradle his cheek. Even as Namjoon leans in a little closer, watching Yoongi’s face, alert and attentive as always.

He must know by now what desire looks like on Yoongi’s face. He has to, because he leans in to brush their lips together without a word, a ghost of a touch that tingles through Yoongi’s core and has him wrapping his arms around Namjoon’s shoulders.

And then they’re kissing, slow and careful, Namjoon’s lips achingly soft against Yoongi’s own. It’s the first time they’ve kissed as equals, far away from their roles as Dominant and submissive. Yoongi doesn’t have any rules to follow, doesn’t have to stop his hands from wandering.

So he lets them wander. One hand slides into Namjoon’s hair, thick and warm, his fingers curling gently into the strands to hold on. The other trails along Namjoon’s shoulders, up to the hot skin of his neck, exploring, feeling, as Namjoon’s arms wind around his waist to pull him closer.

They’ve done so much together. Namjoon has brought him to the peak of pleasure so many times, pushed him until he couldn’t take it anymore, and filled his body with nothing but carnal need, leaving no room for rational thought.

This is different.

They’re barely doing anything. They’re fully clothed. Yoongi’s an exhausted mess from his flight, and Namjoon is soft and rumpled in his sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. This was unplanned, and they didn’t take the time to build up anticipation or an atmosphere, but…

Just this point of connection—their kisses growing deeper, tongues brushing—sends a different kind of pleasure fluttering through Yoongi. It’s less fire and electricity, less achingly perfect agony. Desire fills him like summer rain, gentle and unobtrusive, overflowing. It’s the feeling of warmth Yoongi has when he wakes up in Namjoon’s bed after a scene, their body heat mingled under the blankets, their defenses down in the early hours of the morning.

It’s soft. It’s safe. It’s so good that Yoongi can’t take it, whimpering softly against Namjoon’s lips as they part.

“Tell me what you need,” Namjoon says, nudging his nose against Yoongi’s. “I want to hear you say it.”

His tone is so different from the one he uses when he gives Yoongi a command during their scenes. All Yoongi hears is concern, care that runs so deep that it hurts.

Yoongi leans back just enough to look at him, his fingers combing through Namjoon’s hair. It’s still silver like it was the day they met, and it’s just as beautiful as ever. It makes him look so harsh and intimidating in porn, in his scenes with Yoongi. But times like this, when it’s unstyled and falling around his face, it somehow makes him look sweeter, his eyes brighter.

His eyes, which aren’t looking away from Yoongi’s. A deep, rich brown, the depth of which can only be seen from this close, a privilege reserved for those he kisses, those he holds as tightly as he holds Yoongi. Hooded and gentle, like a dragon protecting its treasure.

Looking into Namjoon’s eyes, it’s almost hard to remember the cold blue that haunts his nightmares, unfeeling and unblinking. The other Dom’s face, just for now, slips back into a hazy memory. Everything that happened today seems so distant, so unimportant. All that matters is right here.

Yoongi wants to ask Namjoon to fuck him, but it doesn’t sound right in his mind, bringing up an image that doesn’t fit what he wants. It’s too harsh, too cold and impersonal. All he can think to say is, “I want to bottom again.”

Their lips find each other in a way that’s a little more hungry, a little more urgent. But it’s still so slow, so easy.

“Are you sure?” Namjoon asks against his lips. “I don’t want you to rush into this just because—”

“I’m sure.” Yoongi doesn’t realize how sure he is until he says it, the words coming out firm and unwavering. He ducks his head, hiding his face as Namjoon’s arms tighten around him, sturdy and secure. “I’ve lost so much,” he admits against the curve of Namjoon’s neck. “It’s not even about porn, I just—I need to take this back. For me.” He hesitates, pulling back until he can meet Namjoon’s eyes again. “You’re not obligated to help me. I only want this if you want it, too.”

“I want it.” Namjoon’s lips meet his again, brief and sure. “I want you.”

And it’s easy, after that, to let Namjoon guide him to the bedroom. To let Namjoon lower him onto the mattress, a nervous heat creeping up his spine. But Namjoon is never far away, his lips finding Yoongi’s again and again until he relaxes, until the nerves melt into something like anticipation.

Namjoon feels so good on top of him, so right, heavy and warm. He’s bracing himself with one arm, his bicep big and hard near Yoongi’s head, but the hand on Yoongi’s cheek is so gentle, a whisper of a touch. And Yoongi feels small, caged in, but it’s a cage he holds the key to, one that he can step away from with no more than a flick of the bell on his wrist. It’s the first time all day that he hasn’t felt tense and cornered. Namjoon is a fortress, closing out all the things Yoongi is afraid of, the trust between them giving Yoongi the freedom to let go.

He’s allowed Namjoon to hit and restrain him. He’s been cuffed, gagged, and had candles held inches from his skin. He’s been unable to breathe, unable to hear, broken down to his smallest, most vulnerable core, and Namjoon has seen him through it every time. He’s cradled Yoongi’s soul in the palms of his hands, infused him with pleasure, and shaped him into something a little more confident, a little more sure.

And he’s never been more sure. If he can trust Namjoon with his life, he can trust him with this—his broken pieces, the part of him that might never be whole again.

Namjoon runs his hands up and down Yoongi’s chest, thumbing at the buttons of his shirt. “I think you should keep the bell on.”

Yoongi nods, sliding the back of his hand across the sheets just to hear the gentle tinkle of the bell.

“Promise me you’ll use it if you need it.”

It’s almost strange to hear that from Namjoon now that Yoongi’s been trained to use it without a second thought. But this isn’t a scene, and they need to be on the same page.

“I will.” Yoongi searches Namjoon’s eyes, soothed by his steady gaze. “I’m scared,” he admits, “but I want to do this. Just—just stay where I can see you. I don’t want you behind me.”

Namjoon’s thumb smooths over his cheekbone. “Of course.”

“And…” Yoongi dampens his lips, letting his eyes drift toward the window. It feels weird—almost silly—to ask for this when he’s had sex with more people than he can remember, when no part of him has been untouched. When he can endure impact play and restraints. He should be better than this, stronger than this, but he still lets himself say, “Be gentle.”

“I will,” Namjoon promises, a breath against Yoongi’s ear. “I’ll take care of you.”

One more kiss is pressed against his lips, gentle and lingering, before Namjoon kisses the corner of his mouth, his cheek, and along his jaw. Yoongi angles his head, sinking into the pillow to give Namjoon room to kiss down the length of his neck. Each touch is slow, deliberate—a quiet click of lips, punctuated with a heated exhale before drifting lower.

It feels nicer than it has any right to, pleasure radiating from each point of contact. His hands find their way to Namjoon’s hair again, combing through it, the strands slipping through his fingers like silk. Namjoon makes a soft sound against his collarbone when Yoongi’s fingertips trail along the nape of his neck, drifting down to graze over the wispy vellus hair there.

He’s seen so little of Namjoon’s body, touched him even less. He wants to make up for that now, to make Namjoon feel as good as he makes Yoongi feel. Wants him to feel as safe. As loved.

Because it’s real. For Yoongi, it’s real.

His hands slide down Namjoon’s back, tugging at the loose fabric of his shirt. “I want to see you,” he murmurs, his breath catching as Namjoon’s lips caress his collarbone.

Namjoon pulls away from Yoongi’s neck, pausing to drop one more peck against his lips before sitting up. He lifts his shirt up and over his head, flinging it aside. And fuck—he’s beautiful. He still radiates the same power and safety that comes naturally to him in their scenes, but it seems softer now. Approachable, tangible, in a way that’s new and wonderful.

Yoongi traces his fingers down the lines of his chest, following the gentle path of firm muscle over his stomach.

“Okay?” Namjoon asks, gentle eyes searching Yoongi’s face.

Yoongi blinks away from the expanse of golden skin before him, meeting Namjoon’s eyes. “It’s annoying how hot you are.”

Namjoon looks blindsided for a moment, eyes round and bewildered, before it melts away with a snort of a laugh. His dimples are more noticeable than ever in the low light, framing his eye-crinkling smile.

“God, you’re so…” Namjoon shakes his head, his smile softening into something sweet and fond. He looks at Yoongi for just a second too long, his brows pinched and lips parted, something heavy and unspoken between them.

“What?” Yoongi asks.

“I don’t know.” Namjoon cups his cheek again. “You’re something else. You’re so unapologetically you, it’s… It’s really special.”

‘Special’ is probably one of the last words Yoongi would ever pick to describe himself. He’s broken, a coward. He’s selfish and withdrawn. He feels like an embarrassment most days. But right here, right now—under Namjoon, Namjoon’s eyes focused on him alone—he feels special.

He slides his hands up Namjoon’s torso, brushing over a defined chest and skimming past his nipples until he can loop his wrists over Namjoon’s shoulders. And Namjoon comes easily when Yoongi guides him back down for a kiss, handing over control like it’s nothing.

He doesn’t resist when Yoongi rolls him onto his back, doesn’t seem to mind when Yoongi starts sliding down his sweatpants. He doesn’t even mention that Yoongi is still fully clothed. And maybe it doesn’t make sense, because Namjoon has had him naked and pinned open, tied up and exposed in the middle of his living room, but Yoongi doesn’t want to be the first one vulnerable. He wants to keep his armor on for just a second longer, wants to see Namjoon the way Namjoon has always seen him:

As the one willing to drop his defenses. Trusting and exposed with nothing to hide behind.

And Namjoon lets him. He lifts his hips so Yoongi can tug down his pants and underwear, the fabric catching on his cock, which sways upward and bobs against his belly with the movement.

It still looks so fucking big. Yoongi has bottomed enough in the past that he still remembers how to relax, and it’s been easier and easier to take the plugs. But it hits him all at once that this is happening, that it won’t be long before Namjoon is inside him.

Starting from scratch, treating him like he’s never bottomed before—it was a good idea in theory. But the problem isn’t that Yoongi doesn’t know how to relax. His body will be fine. He’s not sure what being held down and fucked will do to his mind.

He doesn’t want another breakdown, a repeat of the time Namjoon tried to finger him. And after the day he’s had, he feels almost primed for it—like he’s standing on a pane of glass that cracks a little more each time he shifts his weight. Any second, it will shatter. And he doesn’t know what awaits him in the chasm below.

Maybe nothing at all. Falling forever would hurt less, but if he doesn’t hit the ground, he’ll never be able to get back up. And that scares Yoongi more than anything.

“Hey. Come back to me.” Gentle fingers touch the tip of his chin, angling his head up. Yoongi blinks rapidly, focusing on Namjoon’s eyes. He can’t even be embarrassed that he was just sitting here staring at Namjoon’s cock—not when Namjoon is looking at him like this.

Patient. Loving. Gazing up at Yoongi like he’s something precious.

“Can you talk to me?” Namjoon asks.

“Yeah.” Yoongi pulls in a breath, centering himself. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. We don’t have to do this. You can change your mind at any time.”

“I know.” Yoongi does know that—that’s the amazing thing. More than that, he believes it. Namjoon could be right on the edge of orgasm, and he’d still stop if Yoongi asked him to. “I’m not changing my mind, it’s just… You’re going to have to go so fucking slow. It’s not going to be good for you at all.”

Namjoon smiles in response, soft and sweet, and that’s hardly the reaction Yoongi was expecting. “You’re wrong about that,” he says, shaking his head, silver hair spilling over the pillow. “But even if you weren’t, we could just—I don’t know—switch to toys or something. Stick with fingers. Whatever you want.”

Namjoon’s hands slide down to his thighs, squeezing gently. “Would it help if you stayed on top of me like this? You could set the pace, be in control.”

Ten years ago, that might have worked. Yoongi snorts. “My neck is still fucking sore because I tried to lay my head back in the bathtub hours ago.”

“Baby.” Namjoon smiles up at him teasingly, even as a hand comes up to gently rub at the back of his neck. “Is this what I have to look forward to at thirty?”

Yoongi sighs, relaxing into the firm motions of Namjoon’s fingers working against him. When exactly did Namjoon start calling him ‘baby’ outside of scenes? Yoongi can’t pinpoint it, but it feels like he’s always done it. It feels normal—feels right.

“Maybe,” he says. “You better be the one to put in all the work now. You only have, like, three months before you’re a certified fossil.”

The movement of Namjoon’s fingers stops, and it hits Yoongi that they’ve never talked about birthdays. He only knows because he’s read Namjoon’s profile on the agency’s website more times than he can count. Why does that feel weirder than openly admitting to watching each other’s porn?

“Shit, you’re right.” Namjoon starts massaging his neck again, his free hand moving to stroke Yoongi’s hip. “Then what will we do?”

Yoongi can’t read too much into this. Even though it fucking sounds like Namjoon is implying that they’ll do this again—just have normal, vanilla sex with the same casual frequency as they do scenes. Their scenes don’t mean anything to Namjoon, so why should this?

Yoongi lifts a single shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Namjoon’s expression softens into something a little more serious, but no less tender. “Really, though. We can do whatever makes you most comfortable. Just tell me what you need, and we can adjust as we go.”

“I want to be under you,” Yoongi says. He lowers his eyes to watch his hands slide up Namjoon’s torso, his fingers gliding over warm, firm skin. He dips down, pressing a kiss to the center of Namjoon’s chest. “But don’t hold me down. I don’t want to feel trapped.”

He doesn’t want to feel a hand on the back of his head, pinning it down so he can’t adjust for air. Doesn’t want to feel his wrists locked together, immobile.

Namjoon sucks in a breath when Yoongi’s lips brush over the dark skin of his nipples. “But I want it to be good for you, too.” Yoongi hesitates, pressing his forehead against Namjoon’s clavicle. “As good as it can be. I don’t know if—”

“Don’t worry about that.” Namjoon’s fingers comb through his hair. “Seriously. It’s always good with you, no matter what we’re doing. Just being near you is enough.”

Yoongi squeezes his eyes closed as he presses absent kisses against Namjoon’s shoulder, his fingers tracing over Namjoon’s chest as if to map every inch of him. It’s what he’s been craving all day—being near Namjoon, soaking in his comforting presence, letting himself be taken care of.

“Okay,” he whispers. He seals the word against Namjoon’s neck with a kiss, moving back up to slot their lips together.

It’s slow despite the steadily growing heat behind it. But even that’s careful, contained—a cozy warmth from the fireplace in winter, melting away the chill of a frosty night. The brush of Namjoon’s tongue against his is soft and questioning, an invitation. It’s so different from the kisses they’ve shared during their scenes, where Namjoon takes what he wants and leaves Yoongi reeling. Just a tiny touch, then he’s retreating, relaxing his head against the pillow to put some space between them, giving Yoongi room to follow.

And Yoongi follows, warmth curling through him as Namjoon’s lips part beneath his own, their tongues meeting in a tender caress. It lights up Yoongi’s entire body, sunlight emanating from their point of connection and flowing through his veins. Namjoon shifts under him, raising his arms and looping them around Yoongi’s back, hesitating before his hands land in the dip between Yoongi’s shoulder blades.

It’s only then that Yoongi realizes he’s still fully dressed, Namjoon’s touch muted through his shirt. His mouth slides away from Namjoon’s, their lips clinging until the last second, as if unwilling to part.

“Let me,” Yoongi manages, no more than a breath. Namjoon’s hands follow Yoongi’s downward, slipping under the back of his shirt.

And Yoongi starts fumbling with his buttons, wishing he’d worn anything else. Namjoon’s nails skim over the heated skin of his back, a tease of pleasure that makes Yoongi’s grip on the buttons slip.

He nudges Namjoon’s cheek with his nose. “I guess you don’t have scissors nearby?”

“Not this time.” He feels Namjoon’s laugh more than he hears it, a gentle shake beneath him. “Here…”

His fingers brush past Yoongi’s, unfastening buttons with deliberate gentleness. The fabric slides down Yoongi’s shoulders, guided by Namjoon’s hands until Yoongi has to sit up to slip it off completely.

“So pretty.” Namjoon’s eyes glimmer in the low light as they flicker over Yoongi’s body, taking him in as if he’s never seen him before. As if he hasn’t had every inch of Yoongi’s body at his disposal for months now. His hands glide down Yoongi’s arms, tracing slim muscles, skimming past the points of his elbows, until he tangles their fingers together. “You’re so pretty, Yoongi.”

Yoongi can’t stop himself from smiling even as he lowers his eyes, his face warm. His gaze lands on their hands, wrapped around each other on Namjoon’s chest. Namjoon’s long, tapered fingers look so elegant against his own, tan and perfect. He’s the pretty one. Yoongi’s hands look too big next to Namjoon’s, too harsh, his cuticles red and torn.

Before he can hide them, Namjoon lifts Yoongi’s hands to his mouth and presses a kiss against the prominent knob of a knuckle.

“Come here,” Namjoon says against his skin, and he gently tugs on Yoongi’s hands to guide him forward so their lips can meet again.

And just like in their scenes, Namjoon is patient, taking his time. Some part of Yoongi must have expected Namjoon to still be a little domineering, to take control and crash into him like a wave, leaving him with no choice but to hold on and follow his lead. But there is no lead, no pressure. It’s just them, together as equals, exploring each other in a way they’ve never been able to.

Every touch, each brush of their lips, makes the heat in Yoongi glow a little brighter. He hardly notices they’re moving until he’s on his side, his legs—still clothed—tangled with Namjoon’s as they face each other from across the pillow.

“You good?” Namjoon asks, his eyes flickering as he searches Yoongi’s face.

Yoongi nods. Then, as an afterthought, he says, “Yeah. I am.” He wants Namjoon to know he can still talk, that he’s not overwhelmed and anxious. For now, he’s okay.

Namjoon’s fingers skim down his side, a soft, warm pleasure rippling through Yoongi’s skin. Namjoon’s hand comes to rest on his hip, his thumb hooked in the waist of Yoongi’s pants.

“This okay?”

Yoongi smiles, reaching to brush a few wayward strands of hair off Namjoon’s forehead. “You’ve seen me naked before. Probably more times than you’ve seen me with clothes on.”

“It’s not about me seeing you,” Namjoon says. He shifts his hand to trail his thumb over the point of Yoongi’s hip. “We’ve never—we’ve always had some kind of barrier between us. I want you to be comfortable.”

It’s strange to think they’ve never been fully naked together before, but Namjoon is right. Even if Namjoon slips into the bath with him after a scene, he at least keeps his underwear on. And it makes Yoongi’s chest hurt, makes him love Namjoon even more. Before Namjoon knew the details, before he realized how scared Yoongi was, he still went out of his way to make sure Yoongi felt safe.

Yoongi could never be this comfortable with anyone else.

“I trust you, Namjoon.”

Namjoon leans in, resting his forehead against Yoongi’s in a solid, comforting touch. He’s too close to see, so Yoongi lets his eyes flutter closed, breathing out a laugh as Namjoon nuzzles their noses together. And when they kiss, it’s no more than a light brush of lips, sweet and promising.

Distantly, Yoongi feels the waist of his pants loosen, followed by the sound of the zipper being tugged down. And he’s not afraid when Namjoon slides his pants down, freeing one leg and then the other. He’s not afraid when he’s rolled onto his back, lifting his hips and curling his legs so Namjoon can remove his underwear.

Namjoon squeezes Yoongi’s hips, kisses one of his knees. He fits easily in the spread of Yoongi’s legs, his thighs hot and firm under Yoongi’s. Yoongi’s heart is racing in his chest, hard and fast, prickles of anticipation that he almost mistakes for anxiety sparking across his skin. It’s like the threshold of pain and pleasure he’s grown so accustomed to, that he craves.

Still, part of him is waiting to panic, waiting for his brain to realize that this is different, that Namjoon is between his legs and there’s nothing between them, but the fear doesn’t come.

All he feels is a fuzzy rush of relief when Namjoon bends over him, their cocks brushing together teasingly.

“Okay?” Namjoon asks. His thumb strokes over Yoongi’s chin, tracing the curve. And it seems absent, purposeless, only for the sake of touching him.

“Yeah.” It comes out a little shaky, a little breathless.

Namjoon will stop if Yoongi needs him to. Maybe more importantly, though, he won’t stop unless Yoongi asks him to. It’s a trust that goes both ways, even in their scenes: Yoongi trusts Namjoon to respect his safeword, and Namjoon trusts Yoongi to use it, keeping the scene going unless he recognizes genuine signs of distress.

This won’t be any different. The foundation of trust beneath them is solid—practiced and perfected. It doesn’t matter that this isn’t a scene. This is something more, something bigger. Something Yoongi is too afraid to name.

No matter what they’re doing, what happens around them, it’s always him and Namjoon in the eye of the storm, safe and calm.

Namjoon kisses his lips, his chin, his neck. His breath tickles warmly against the sensitive skin usually concealed by the collar, and somehow it feels even more intimate for Namjoon to touch him here, the one piece of his body that’s never exposed during their scenes.

“You mean so much to me,” Namjoon says, pressing a gentle kiss against his Adam’s apple.

Yoongi lets his eyes fall closed, squeezing them tight against the pain in his heart. He has to move past this. He doesn’t want anything to hold him back anymore—not even his feelings for Namjoon. He can’t keep looking for signs that aren’t there, reading into the things Namjoon says, hoping for affection that he doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t want to ruin anything else with his selfishness—especially not this.

He pushes the thought away and lets the pain melt out of him under every brush of Namjoon’s lips, every careful touch of his hands. Namjoon traces the lines of his ribs with his fingers as he kisses Yoongi’s nipples, one after the other, reverent. Yoongi sighs, curling his fingers in Namjoon’s hair as Namjoon moves down further, the tip of his nose and the soft swell of his lips grazing Yoongi’s skin in a trail of sparks.

The muscles in his abdomen jump sensitively when Namjoon kisses just above his navel. He moves down to kiss the softer skin beneath it, so close to Yoongi’s cock that it’s tingling with the proximity, twitching with the need to be touched.

“I’ve wanted to taste you for so long,” Namjoon confesses against the jut of Yoongi’s hipbone, long fingers curling around the base of Yoongi’s cock. And the image alone makes Yoongi moan, his blood searing. Namjoon’s hand is so big and warm around him, the flushed pink head peeking out from the circle of Namjoon’s fingers.

“Please.” It’s all Yoongi can manage, no more than a breath, and Namjoon’s lips twitch into a smile.

“I’m not as good at this as you are.” He presses a kiss to the tip, firm and lingering. And it’s such a pretty contrast—the deep, dusty mauve of his lips against the light, blushed pink of Yoongi’s cock. Yoongi’s head falls back with a shaky breath, a dribble of precome leaking out of him.

“But I’ll try to—I don’t know—make up for it with enthusiasm or something,” Namjoon says, and Yoongi doesn’t even remember what they’re talking about.

The drag of Namjoon’s tongue up his length is slow and heavy, ending in a firm kiss. Yoongi’s hips jerk when Namjoon wraps his lips around the head, engulfing him in heat. Namjoon doesn’t take him very deep, pulling back to drop little wet kisses against the tip as saliva trickles down Yoongi’s length and over Namjoon’s fingers. He keeps his hand still, holding Yoongi in a firm grip as he licks away beads of precome.

It’s so different from the blowjobs Yoongi gets in porn, which sacrifice pleasure for the sake of the camera angle, subs going through the motions for a paycheck. Namjoon’s mouth works over him like he wants to memorize every detail, his tongue tracing every ridge and vein, dipping into the slit and moaning as he tastes him.

Vaguely, through the haze of bliss, Yoongi knows he’s not supposed to come from this. He doesn’t want to come from this.

He wants to come with Namjoon inside him. He sucks in a breath, his hips kicking at the thought of the stretch, at the thought of Namjoon holding him and filling him.

That’s going to happen. Tonight. By the time Yoongi gets home, he’ll know what it feels like to be fucked open by Namjoon’s cock.

And right now, with Namjoon’s mouth on him, he’s not afraid. For the first time all day, he feels like he’s in control, the anxiety and self-doubt dissolving with each brush of Namjoon’s lips, each swirl of Namjoon’s tongue, like Yoongi is something to be savored.

He feels desired in a way he could never be by a demanding company. There’s no money involved, no expectant fanbase. There’s a love between them, whether it’s romantic or not. Namjoon is doing this because he cares, because he wants to see Yoongi happy and free of fear.

“Fuck—Namjoon,” Yoongi sighs, his fingers tangling in Namjoon’s hair as his thighs tense.

Namjoon hums, peering up at Yoongi through his eyelashes, the vibration through his cock making Yoongi’s breath catch. And there’s something surreal and wonderful about seeing Namjoon like this, focused solely on Yoongi’s pleasure. He’s still the same Namjoon Yoongi has been playing with all this time; the same Namjoon he’s grown to care about so much. This is another side of him that fits perfectly with the image of him Yoongi is so familiar with: someone who gives and gives, even to people who don’t deserve it.

Namjoon’s lips drag upward in a delicious squeeze, finally pulling away with a firm kiss to the tip. “So good.” His breath is hot against Yoongi’s skin, and he kisses down the underside of his dick in firm, lingering presses. “Can I touch you?”

Yoongi almost wants to be difficult, to point out that Namjoon is already touching him, just to see him pink and flustered. But he doesn’t have it in him, not while his body is warm with pleasure and Namjoon is looking at him as if he hung the stars.

He nods. “Yeah. Just—slow.”

“I will,” Namjoon promises. Yoongi expects him to sit up, to move away from him for a moment to get the lube, but he doesn’t. He sucks Yoongi back into his mouth, the sudden heat against the cooling saliva on his cock making Yoongi’s toes curl, a strangled whine in his throat.

And Namjoon lets Yoongi relax into it, lets the heat build between them again until Yoongi’s mind goes blank, filled with only gentle, constant pleasure. It feels like he’s never been anywhere but here, under Namjoon, taken apart slowly by the achingly slow suction, the agonizing tickle of excess saliva trailing down his length, the muffled sounds of pleasure.

Namjoon’s shoulder nudges gently against his thigh as he tilts his head, taking Yoongi a little deeper, swallowing around him, and Yoongi feels himself moving to accommodate him. His legs fall open wider, curling one knee toward his chest.

Namjoon’s fingers trace over the length he can’t fit into his mouth, dragging through the saliva that had trickled down to his balls, then going lower. The first brush against his perineum is gentle, a tease, perfectly timed with the tip of Namjoon’s tongue grinding against his slit, and Yoongi can’t stop the whine that tumbles out of him.

Namjoon shifts his hand, his fingers reaching further back, pressing more firmly. Yoongi holds his breath, bracing himself—he trusts Namjoon, he wants this, but all he can think about is the last time Namjoon tried to touch him: The panic, the vivid flashback unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, the humiliation that followed.

But all Namjoon does is pause just above his hole, massaging the skin there with his fingers. And it’s nice, nothing special, but it still gives Yoongi a chance to relax again—and that’s when the low pulse of pleasure sparks through him. His breath catches, his back arching as he moans.

“There we go,” Namjoon murmurs, and Yoongi doesn’t even know when Namjoon stopped blowing him. He’s massaging Yoongi’s thigh with his free hand as his fingers work his prostate from the outside, and Yoongi fucking aches with how much he missed this feeling specifically.

The external touch is less intense, a slow, muted buildup of pleasure. It’s almost torture, nudging him toward a faraway cliff, but never enough to bring him to the edge, never enough to push him over.

Namjoon licks a hot stripe up his dick, kissing the base of the head, and Yoongi can feel himself leaking against his stomach. “You like that?” Namjoon asks, and it’s so fucking unnecessary that Yoongi can only breathe out a laugh.

“More.” He tugs at Namjoon’s hair with shaking fingers, then lets his hand drop down to skim over Namjoon’s cheek, fingers tracing his lips. They’re so fucking soft, the heat of his breath rushing through Yoongi’s veins.

Namjoon’s lips purse into a kiss under Yoongi’s fingers, a soft little tug of suction against his skin.

“Tell me how you like it,” Namjoon says. He works his fingers a little harder, a little faster, and a low pulse of electricity through Yoongi’s dick makes him groan.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Fast—like that. Fuck.”

“You’re so pretty,” Namjoon tells him again. “So fucking pretty.” And Yoongi feels the words like a physical touch, bringing him higher, tingling through his entire body. He pulls up his other leg to give Namjoon more room, hooking his hands behind his knees, and fuck—

Somehow the touch seems more intense just from that, the pressure from Namjoon’s fingers suddenly closer, more distinct, the low-burning heat inside him finally growing into something more, the sparks catching, flames licking at the base of his spine. It takes a moment for his brain to register the feeling of a finger moving inside him as Namjoon continues to massage his prostate, slipping inside unnoticed when Yoongi changed positions.

Yoongi feels too fucking good to care, fluid drooling freely from his cock, and he can hear how loud his breaths are, each exhale punctuated with a desperate whine.

“Good boy. Perfect. Just like that.” Namjoon somehow sounds just as worked up as Yoongi feels, and he’s barely been touched.

Yoongi forces his eyes open—he doesn’t remember closing them in the first place—and the first thing he focuses on is Namjoon. Their eyes lock, Namjoon’s pupils blown wide, his lips parted in what looks like awe.

“Don’t make me come,” Yoongi hears himself saying, breathless. “I don’t want—not like this.”

Namjoon shifts up to kiss him, the movement of his finger slowing but not stopping. He reaches over to the nightstand with his free hand, fumbling through the drawer. Something hard falls to the floor, rolling away and knocking lightly against the wall, and Yoongi huffs a laugh against Namjoon’s cheek.

“Just get up.” He punctuates it with a kiss against Namjoon’s dimple, warmed by the sound of his laugh.

“I was trying to keep you distracted,” Namjoon says. Still, he withdraws his finger and sits up, leaning over to see what he’s doing, the side of his torso stretched out like the sculpture of a god. Yoongi trails his fingers across the ridges of muscle over his ribs, down to the slight dip of his waist. He feels so firm and sturdy and good—despite the way his whole body quivers with a suppressed laugh.

“Stop,” Namjoon whines as he grabs a bottle of lube from the drawer. He twists out of Yoongi’s reach as he settles back into position above him. “I’m ticklish.”

“Yeah?” Yoongi grins, skimming his fingers down Namjoon’s chest.

“Come on, seriously,” Namjoon says, giggling, his face flushed and happy. “Let me get the mood back.”

The mood was nice, but right now, Yoongi thinks he likes this better. This isn’t a scene with a specific theme, a specific mood, and an ambiance that needs to be maintained. This is just—them. Unplanned and unpracticed, figuring it out in the moment instead of negotiating beforehand. Dom Namjoon would have had the lube carefully placed nearby so it would be there when he was ready, seamless and perfect, never once breaking the flow.

The real Namjoon—the one that makes Yoongi’s heart so full that it breaks—is awkward and imperfect and everything Yoongi could ever want.

It helps that this doesn’t feel like a scene. It helps that they can laugh with each other. There’s no pressure to do this perfectly, and Yoongi’s mind isn’t telling him to push himself to please his Dominant. The line between fantasy and reality is clearer than it’s ever been, and Yoongi feels that much safer because of it.

He doesn’t even feel nervous when he hears the lube snap open, or when Namjoon drizzles a generous amount onto his fingers. He rubs them together, warming it, but Yoongi still hisses in a breath when Namjoon touches him.

“Relax for me,” Namjoon says gently, his fingers tracing slippery circles around Yoongi’s rim. His thumb presses down on that spot that makes Yoongi glow with pleasure, still so sensitive from the way Namjoon had been touching him—firm and fast.

Yoongi hums tightly, his thighs falling open as he presses into the feeling, and two fingers slide into him slow and easy, nudging purposefully against his prostate on the way.

“Does that feel okay?” Namjoon asks. His fingers are working in slow circles, the slight bump of his knuckles catching on Yoongi’s rim with the movement, dragging in and out with a low, pleasurable burn that makes Yoongi’s eyelids flutter.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He reaches down to tug absently at his cock, trying to focus on relaxing, opening up for Namjoon, swerving around bad memories like navigating a maze. It would be better if he could stop thinking entirely, if everything he feared wasn’t so intrinsically linked to what he craved.

But he wants this. He wants to get over it. He wants his fans to care about him again, to be the person everyone wants him to be. He wants to win awards for doing something that he loves, not for impersonating a Dominant. He wants to take this back, so maybe the next time he walks into a room with the people who ruined his life, he won’t turn and run away.

“I’ve got you,” Namjoon says gently, his lips brushing Yoongi’s cheek. And he’s just—warm. Everything about Namjoon is so warm. His body curved over Yoongi’s like a protective barrier, his lips soft on Yoongi’s skin and his voice even softer. Yoongi slides his arms around Namjoon’s shoulders, the heat of his skin radiating through Yoongi’s.

Maybe, more than anything else, Yoongi just wants to have sex with someone he cares about. It doesn’t have to be any bigger than that. It doesn’t have to mean he’ll be prepared to start taking sub roles starting tomorrow. Right now, all he wants is to enjoy this.

He can feel when the resistance melts out of him, when his body opens up and lets Namjoon in, when the feeling goes from an awkward intrusion to something small and welcome and not enough.

“That’s it.” Namjoon kisses the corner of his lips as his fingers slide in and out, careful and steady, like he’s getting Yoongi used to the feeling. But Yoongi remembers it, his body remembers. All he wants is—

“More.” It’s nothing but a breath against Namjoon’s lips, a secret, and he can feel Namjoon smile in response.

He shivers as Namjoon’s fingers glide out of him, the tip of a third nudging at his entrance. The stretch of three fingers pushing into him is different, good, his body closing around Namjoon like a glove.

Namjoon takes it slow, centimeter by agonizing centimeter until he’s buried up to his knuckles, the rest of his hand pressed against Yoongi’s cheeks. Yoongi clenches around him, adjusting, and it feels… good. Normal. Like something he shouldn’t be afraid of, because it’s familiar and natural.

It makes all of the times he broke down over little more than a finger seem even more humiliating in comparison. He can feel his mind trying to wander, wisps of memories niggling at the edges of his mind—the first time he texted Namjoon, voiceless and broken, over nothing.

But Namjoon hadn’t judged him, even back then. Even when they were more like enemies than friends. And the thought dissipates as Namjoon starts building up a rhythm, fingers slowly rocking in and out, steadily pushing in with a little more force.

And each time, Yoongi feels himself tense—just for a second—the muscles in his thighs jumping like his legs are going to snap closed on their own. Then a flare of sparks washes over him, nerves melting into pleasure over and over and over. With each thrust, the scale tips a little more toward the sheer goodness of it, outweighing the fear, until Yoongi is melting into the mattress.

“You look so good like this,” Namjoon tells him, stroking Yoongi’s thigh with his free hand. “So fucking good.”

His eyes are locked between Yoongi’s legs, dark and intense as he watches his fingers slide in and out. And it just makes the fire in Yoongi burn hotter, the sparks rushing into his face, burning across his cheeks and tingling in his lips.

It’s not enough. Fingers will never be enough. The feeling he craves—it’s nothing fingers or a plug could ever imitate.

“I want to try—more,” he manages, breathy, and Namjoon glances up so their eyes can meet. The darkness, the lust, in Namjoon’s eyes is enough to knock a whimper of a moan out of Yoongi’s chest, his spine curling as if to raise his hips in offering.

“Another finger?” Namjoon asks, the tip of his pinky grazing over Yoongi’s stretched rim and making him shudder sensitively.

Yoongi shakes his head. “Just you. I want to feel you.”

Namjoon’s fingers are already slowly sliding out when he asks, “Are you sure?”

Yoongi’s body clings to him until the last moment, until the tips of his fingers are forced out when he clenches, and he groans at the sudden loss. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Please.”

It would be worse if Namjoon questioned him further. If he asked if Yoongi was really sure, but he doesn’t. All he does is kiss Yoongi’s lips and reach for the lube again, and that’s more reassuring than anything he could have said.

He trusts Yoongi. Believes in him. A million questions would have made Yoongi second guess himself, would have made him worry that Namjoon had noticed something wrong, something Yoongi hadn’t picked up on yet.

Knowing that Namjoon doesn’t doubt him only makes him feel more sure. He can do this. He will do this. And maybe it won’t change his life, maybe he’ll still be too afraid to bottom for anyone other than Namjoon—maybe he’ll discover he can’t enjoy it anymore at all—but at least he will have taken this back. At least his last memories of bottoming won’t be that fucking scene and a few failed attempts with his ex.

He’ll have this. Something safe and full of love, regardless of the type of love it is. Even if he never bottoms again, this will be worth it.

“I’ll go slow,” Namjoon promises as he strokes himself, and how is he hard from basically nothing?

The lube somehow makes Namjoon’s dick look even bigger, every ridge highlighted. Once, before all of this, Yoongi would have looked at a dick like Namjoon’s, and his only thought would have been how good it would be, how he couldn’t wait to feel every detail of it pass through the tight clench of his hole.

And that’s what Yoongi tries to focus on now. Because there’s nothing to be afraid of, not with Namjoon, but he can’t pretend he’s not nervous.

The fingers of Namjoon’s clean hand comb through Yoongi’s hair, tucking it back. “Ready?”

Yoongi knows he is—as ready as he can be—but he still forces himself to stop and think about it. Today felt like a nightmare come true, putting him face-to-face with the people who took so much from him. The fact that he’s here, enjoying this after everything, feels like a victory on its own.

He’s made progress. He’s not the person he was when they started this, who didn’t know how to answer when Namjoon asked what he wanted from their scenes—the person who assumed he had to get fucked if he wanted to sub, without even having the tools to communicate if he needed to stop.

He’s ready, but he also knows that being ready doesn’t mean it will be perfect. Still, unlike everything else he fears, this can end the second he wants it to. He can change his mind at any time.

But looking at Namjoon, waiting so patiently, unwilling to move without explicit consent, Yoongi doesn’t want this to end at all.

He nods. “I’m ready.”

Namjoon’s smile is small and beautiful, his eyes sparkling in the low light. He presses one more kiss to Yoongi’s lips, his chin, his cheek, and Yoongi feels the blunt head of Namjoon’s cock nudge against him.

Yoongi squeezes his eyes closed, pulling in a breath as he braces himself. The ribbon around his wrist is a barely-there scratch against his skin, and he rotates his hand to clench the bell in his fist.

He’s safe.

He’s safe, and when Namjoon’s cock glides teasingly between his cheeks, Yoongi lets himself enjoy it. Namjoon doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, guiding his cock up and down Yoongi’s crack. It brushes over his hole with each pass, barely catching on his rim, until Yoongi hears himself groaning in frustration every time Namjoon doesn’t slam into him.

“Come on,” he whines. He hooks a leg over Namjoon’s waist, keeping him close. “You’re going to put me to sleep.”

That couldn’t be further from the truth—they both know it—but Namjoon still lets out a sheepish little laugh. “Sorry. I just want to savor this.”

Yoongi blinks his eyes open, only to find Namjoon looking right back at him, a look on his face that Yoongi can’t quite interpret. It’s warm, fond, and something else—quiet and overwhelming—that makes Yoongi’s heart wrench.

“Keep looking at me,” Namjoon says, brushing the tip of his nose against Yoongi’s. “Don’t think about anything else.”

And Yoongi can’t help but think of the last time Namjoon said something like that to him, when he had Yoongi strapped open on a chair, seconds away from eating him out. It seemed like part of the scene at the time, a show of possessiveness, but it hits differently now.

It’s care, keeping Yoongi present, stopping his mind from drifting too far into the dark. It’s a reminder that he’s safe in Namjoon’s bed, far away from the set in Vegas.

Yoongi’s breath catches when Namjoon lines up with his hole, a burst of heat that’s either a signal flare or a firework shooting up Yoongi’s spine.

“I’ve got you,” Namjoon tells him. And then he’s pushing forward, an aching pressure that Yoongi can feel himself resisting, his body tensing against the intrusion.

But he wants this—he fucking wants this. He keeps his eyes on Namjoon and forces himself to take a breath. A sharp inhale, a shaky exhale, until he remembers how to breathe. Until he remembers how to relax, the tension draining out of him, the last barrier between them crumbling away.

He stretches around Namjoon’s tip, and it’s terrifying—exhilarating—feeling himself open wider and wider as Namjoon slowly sinks into him.

Yoongi’s head falls back as a moan trembles out of him, his fingers twisting in the sheets. He feels too open, too vulnerable—a feeling that only intensifies as Namjoon pushes deeper, slow and careful. And it doesn’t hurt, a feeling as familiar as it is foreign, but he feels so broken: a pane of glass that’s been punched through, cracks and hairline fractures branching out from the jagged, irreparable center.

“Relax,” Namjoon reminds him, so soft, brushing a kiss against his lips.

Relaxing and letting his guard down will make him fall apart. It’s a feeling Yoongi can’t put into words, something so irrational but so ingrained in him. All the broken pieces he’s been clutching onto, all the cracks he’s tried to repair, will drop away like discarded armor, and he doesn’t know what will be left behind. Something small and ruined, or maybe nothing at all. Maybe all he’s ever been is a shell, empty and useless.

Namjoon is still, not pushing in any further and not pulling out, his fingers stroking carefully over Yoongi’s cheek. “Am I hurting you?”

Yoongi shakes his head. It doesn’t hurt. His heart is pounding like he’s in danger, his throat tight and his body tense, his hands clenched so tightly in the sheets that his joints ache, but it doesn’t hurt.

Namjoon has taken him apart so many times, guided him past the breaking point, and stayed with him until he was whole again. No matter what’s waiting for him on the other side, Namjoon will be there to catch him. Namjoon will take care of his body; all Yoongi has to do is turn off his mind and enjoy this.

He makes himself focus on Namjoon, blinking away the haze in his eyes. “Keep going. Please.”

Namjoon braces a hand on the underside of his thigh, just above his knee, holding him open as he rocks his hips shallowly. He’s not even all the way in, just deep enough to grind directly against Yoongi’s prostate with the movement, a whisper of euphoria pulsing through Yoongi’s veins. He can almost feel how this will be good. Almost remember how much he likes it.

But it’s like getting on a rollercoaster for the first time in years, or taking a bite of a meal that’s still too hot—the goodness, the enjoyment, almost completely eclipsed in those first moments of regret and discomfort. But the memory of how good it can be, how everything melts away aside from a beautiful vulnerability and perfect fullness, is enough to keep going. To cling to Namjoon and be in this moment with him—the person he trusts more than anyone else.

Namjoon keeps moving slowly, rocking in place more than anything, and it’s not what Yoongi had expected. The thought of trying to take Namjoon’s dick all in one go, to lie here sweating and anxious, trying to force himself to relax as he takes inch by agonizing inch—he doesn’t think he’d make it. But this is nice, good, his body adjusting to Namjoon’s with each little movement, relaxing and moving with him.

It’s nothing like his last experience. It’s so different that it’s not even worth comparing.

Namjoon kisses him, touches him, whispers encouragements—all soft and reverent. Nothing about this is cold or dark or rushed. He’s pinned under Namjoon but he doesn’t feel trapped, something in him soaring higher and higher as he warms up to the feeling, as Namjoon’s gentle rocking turns into steady thrusts, each one a little deeper than the last.

And when Yoongi feels the points of Namjoon’s hips connect with the backs of his thighs, when the sound of skin on skin starts punctuating each thrust, when he realizes for the first time that Namjoon is fully inside him—that’s when the shell breaks.

He’s undone, laid bare—every secret he’s kept held to his chest, every ugly part of him that he’s tried to hide, is out in the open. The mountain of bad memories that he thought he’d never be able to climb—all the fear and pain that made him feel like he’d never enjoy this again—it’s suddenly behind him. He fought so hard to reach the top, climbing and falling and climbing again, only to tumble head-first down the other side in an exhilarating free fall.

He presses his face against Namjoon’s neck, breathing him in, lips sliding across a sheen of sweat. This is real. This is happening, and some part of Yoongi is anxious because he’s not anxious, worried that he should be worried. But everything about Namjoon keeps him here, grounded in the present: the hot, heavy musk drowning out the clean scent of his skin; the heat radiating from him; the sound of his breath, tinged with little whines.

“Fuck,” Namjoon breathes, sweet and overwhelmed, hot against Yoongi’s neck. “You feel so good.”

The fire in Yoongi flares with a pulse of white-hot pleasure. This isn’t just about him—he never wanted it to be just about him. Knowing that Namjoon is getting something out of this only pulls Yoongi higher, tightening the coil of want in his chest.

Yoongi clenches around him, tightening his arms around Namjoon’s shoulders as a shaky sound tumbles past Namjoon’s lips. His next thrust hits a little harder, a thick pressure that Yoongi can feel in his throat. He tugs at Namjoon’s hair, curls his fingers to skim the blunt edges of his nails across Namjoon’s back, memorizing every little sound and hitch of breath.

Namjoon’s pace stays slow and easy, pushing into Yoongi with firm, deep strokes that have Yoongi seeing stars, knocking helpless sounds from his chest each time he slides home. And it feels like every part of them is touching, melding together, until Yoongi can’t tell where he ends and Namjoon begins.

Memories slide past like sand through his fingers, far away and unimportant, breaking away from him, leaving raw, open spaces for Namjoon to fill like gold lacquer. His boyfriend’s impatience and lack of understanding, the inability to express his needs, the dungeon from his nightmares—it all disappears under Namjoon’s touch, the feeling of his body moving against Yoongi’s, the trust between them.

And maybe Yoongi hasn’t been able to trust anyone since that scene. Maybe he’d forgotten what it felt like. Maybe he hasn’t enjoyed sex in a long time, and the realization that he is enjoying this swoops in his chest, flushing hot and cold through his skin and taking his breath away.

He’s hard, so fucking hard, his dick trapped between them, the friction between their bodies little more than a tease—not enough.

“Namjoon,” he manages, just a breath, his fingers scrabbling at Namjoon’s back. He bucks into Namjoon’s next thrust in a silent plea, aching with need. It catches up to him all at once—how long he’s been on edge, how badly he wants to come with Namjoon inside him.

“Are you close?” Namjoon asks, his lips against Yoongi’s temple, shaky breaths cooling the sweat-damp hair plastered to Yoongi’s skin. Yoongi can only nod, his voice lost in pleasure, and Namjoon kisses his temple, his forehead. “Me too.”

Namjoon slides a hand between them, his fingers curling around Yoongi’s length, wrenching out a strangled whine. Everything is so hot, so much—Yoongi can almost feel the pounding of Namjoon’s pulse through his palm, thrumming against his cock, a messy slide of sweat and lube and precome. Every movement of Namjoon’s hand, every drag of cock past Yoongi’s sensitive rim, brings him closer to his peak, pressure building inside him, burning in his eyes and prickling beneath his skin.

His mouth falls open around all the words he’ll never say, his head falling back in ecstasy. And Namjoon kisses the expanse of his neck, his rhythm faltering, whispering praise against Yoongi’s skin.

It hits all at once. An orgasm slams through Yoongi with a physical force, his back arching and his hips bucking as he comes, a burst of heat radiating through Yoongi’s skin. Namjoon is right behind him, a defeated moan and a worshipful “fuck, Yoongi—” muffled against his neck.

He manages a few more faltering thrusts as he rides out his own orgasm, Yoongi’s body clenching and arcing like a live wire, and he whines as Namjoon jerks the last spurts of come from him. And as always, Namjoon seems to know just when to stop, when to slowly release his hold on his oversensitive cock, when to be still, staying close without pulling out—not yet.

And Yoongi can only lie there, too hot between the sweaty sheets and Namjoon’s body, stars sparkling through his veins, clutching Namjoon to his chest. He can’t make himself let go, even when Namjoon slumps against him, almost too heavy to be comfortable.

He feels beautiful, wrecked. He feels fragile and small and brand new. Every part of him is glowing with sated pleasure, even as he’s gripped by the instinctive need to be still, to assess himself for damage. A moment of pause after falling down a flight of stairs, clinging to the rail and wondering if it’s safe to move, wondering when the shaky relief will give way to pain.

“Shh…” Namjoon kisses Yoongi’s shoulder, shifting in his hold as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Baby. It’s okay.”

Namjoon’s lips are warm against his forehead, fingers soft against his cheek, smearing the tears that Yoongi doesn’t remember shedding. His chest is tight around a knot of emotions he can’t untangle or put a name to, something between joy and grief, the inexplicable pain of healing, a white-hot iron cauterizing a wound. He’s wasted so much time fearing this, denying himself something he loves, and the anger and shame burn like poison in his throat.

But it’s relief, most of all. Catharsis. The first sure, careful step toward being himself again.

He can feel Namjoon’s eyes on him, but he can’t make himself look back. Right now, more than anything, he just wants to be held, to hide in the shelter of Namjoon’s arms and relearn how to breathe.

Namjoon must find what he’s looking for anyway, because he relaxes, nuzzling against Yoongi’s cheek and whispering praise that feels like love.

Yoongi is hollowed out, empty, when they finally separate, a low whine trembling through him. But Namjoon only hushes him and pulls him close as they change positions, slotting together with Yoongi’s face nuzzled into the curve of Namjoon’s neck.

It wasn’t long ago that Namjoon held him like this as he fell apart. Now, Namjoon holds him just as tight as Yoongi puts himself back together, patient and kind enough to pretend he doesn’t notice Yoongi’s silent tears and heavy, broken breaths.

They’ll need to move eventually—change the sheets and get cleaned up. Yoongi can already feel the slick, sticky mixture of lube and come leaking out of him, sweat sticking their heated skin together, but it can wait. For now, for the rest of his life, all Yoongi wants is this: the gentle skimming of Namjoon’s fingers up and down his back, the press of lips in his hair, the heart beating sure and strong against his own.

The backyard is surprisingly green. Enclosed by a tall, louver fence made up of pretty redwood, it looks too nice—too lush—to belong in the middle of Nevada. A gentle breeze flows freely through the horizontal slats in the fence, and Yoongi takes in a deep, grounding breath.

He’s sore in that deep, wonderful way he hasn’t felt in so long, an ache that settled in at some point during the night. And that’s the only thing that came to him overnight—no nightmares, no attempts to turn last night into something he should fear or regret.

He’s happy. Sore, exhausted, and happy.

The glass door clatters shut behind him, and Namjoon moves to stand beside him on the patio.

“Morning,” Namjoon murmurs, soft and sleepy, pressing a hot mug of coffee into Yoongi’s hands.

It feels natural to turn his head, to let their lips brush in a clumsy peck, as Yoongi takes the mug. “Thanks.”

It’s not morning at all. The sun is already high in the sky, white flashes of light reflecting off the wind chimes Namjoon has secured over the covered patio. Still, Yoongi lifts the mug to his lips for a tentative sip, terrible bitterness zinging across his palate, waking him up that much more.

Yoongi blinks his gaze away from the wind chimes, the fragmented bursts of sunlight floating in reds and blues in front of his eyes. There’s a wicker table in the middle of the patio, topped with a couple of abandoned mugs, and Yoongi wonders if Namjoon usually drinks his coffee out here. The table must have come as a set with the two matching chairs on either side of it, and there’s a pang in Yoongi’s chest at the thought of Namjoon gazing over at the empty chair every morning.

What kind of person does Namjoon imagine sitting with him? Yoongi’s spent so much time thinking about how wrong he is for Namjoon, but he’s never stopped to consider what Namjoon wants. What he’s looking for in a partner, someone who’s more than just his submissive.

Someone beautiful and friendly like Hoseok. Or maybe someone like Jimin, cute and small but probably capable of murder.

“How are you feeling?” Namjoon asks gently, pulling him from his thoughts.

Yoongi smiles down at his mug, tracing his finger around the pale blue rim. “Good. I—really good. I shouldn’t have imposed on you like that, but—”

“It’s okay.” Namjoon’s fingers skim down his back, a barely-there touch through the oversized shirt Namjoon had let him borrow. “You’re always welcome here. I hope you know that.”

Yoongi must have known that to some degree, or he wouldn’t have bothered to drop in last night at all. He doesn’t know why he’d have an open invitation to show up at Namjoon’s door whenever he wanted, but it’s not something he’s prepared to examine too closely. Maybe he’ll think about it later, when he’s alone, when he can’t feel the warmth radiating from Namjoon’s hand.

He only nods, taking another sip of coffee for something to do with his hands. He tilts his chin toward the three raised beds that take up the right side of the yard—they look homemade, just a little too rough around the edges to be intentional, with bent nails sticking out from the wooden sides. “Is that your garden?”

“Oh!” Namjoon’s voice lights up with his smile—Yoongi can see it without even looking. “Yeah. My scrap garden.”

Yoongi blinks, shifting his focus to Namjoon. “Scrap garden?”

“We couldn’t always afford fresh food when I was growing up,” Namjoon says, shrugging. He admits it as if opening up about things like that is easy, like he doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Maybe he doesn’t. He shouldn’t. “So I would save kitchen scraps and try to plant them. The first time I propagated a new plant from a carrot top, I thought I’d solved world hunger. Here—I’ll show you.”

There’s something soothing, unexpectedly comforting, about following Namjoon around the raised beds and letting him show him off the carrot greens; looking at the little white flowers and listening to Namjoon’s explanation about how he wants to try to collect the seeds and grow actual carrots next year. “I haven't had any luck with that yet,” he says, “but I’ve been doing more research. The greens are good for salads and stuff, though.”

The lettuce and cabbages are next, and the celery that had successfully taken root for the first time, all regrown from kitchen scraps. There’s an entire bed dedicated to the green bean plants, and Namjoon kneels beside one, pushing the leaves aside with a gentle fingertip to reveal small bean pods. “These will be ready soon,” Namjoon says softly, as if to keep from disturbing them. “I tried to stagger planting so I could keep harvesting them.”

Yoongi smiles to himself, warmth aching in his chest. Namjoon looks so happy, so proud of his baby plants, and Yoongi loves him.

Namjoon was never on a virtue-signaling ego trip when he talked about being good to the planet. He’s just… good. He must make enough money to put fresh food on the table at this point in his life; he could have stopped doing this a long time ago. Maybe he just enjoys it, or maybe it’s a way to stay in control. A safety net in case he ever finds himself unable to afford what he needs.

“You’ve been doing this since you were a kid?” Yoongi asks, watching as Namjoon delicately plucks a caterpillar off a leaf.

Namjoon gently places it on the other side of the fence. “I guess so, yeah. Off and on.” He stands up, dusting his hands off on his sweatpants. “It was difficult sometimes. We didn’t always have yard space, but I would try to grow things in little cups on the window sill. Stuff like that.”

Yoongi wants to say it sounds nice, because it does. The thought of having the freedom to experiment and learn, the joy of seeing something take root, neat little pots lined up in the sunlight—it’s like a photograph, a glimpse of something warm and happy. But there’s something sad and distant in Namjoon’s eyes, and the fact that he was doing it out of necessity twists the charm into something painful.

He reaches for Namjoon’s hand, his fingers brushing against his wrist before he changes his mind—it’s too close, too intimate somehow, despite the things they’ve done together. Despite the way Namjoon touched him last night, slow and tender. The way Namjoon helped him get cleaned up afterward, keeping him close, never letting him go.

It was just a favor. A way to help Yoongi find himself again.

It’s getting harder and harder to believe that, but he has to. Because he’s too scared to believe anything else.

Yoongi lets his hand drop back down to his side.

“Was it just you and your parents?” he asks, just for something to say.

“Me, my mom, and my sister. My dad was…” Namjoon trails off, frowning. “When he left, it felt like it was my responsibility to—I don’t know—be a man and provide. Isn’t that stupid?”

There are so many questions Yoongi wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to pry. Not when Namjoon is sharing with him so freely. “It’s never stupid to take care of the people you love.”

Namjoon huffs, smiling as he shakes his head. “It was stupid in retrospect. I tried so hard to be different, to make things instead of tearing them down, but you can’t shove a piece of corn in a cup of dirt and provide for a family. I even tried recycling cans for money, finding things we could reuse instead of throwing them away. But I was just selfish, I guess. Just a kid pursuing my own interests and telling myself it would make a difference. I should have just gotten a job.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being selfish sometimes.” Yoongi looks down, scuffing the toe of his shoe through the dirt. “I gave up a lot to take care of my family, but I don’t know if it made a difference in the end. I think it would have been more helpful to finish high school and get a worthwhile degree.”

They fall quiet, and Yoongi can almost hear the gears turning in Namjoon’s mind, lining the pieces up. Namjoon sucks in a breath like he’s bracing himself to say something, only to let it go. He does it again, and maybe Yoongi said too much, derailed the conversation, and made it about himself—as always. He doesn’t want Namjoon to backtrack and apologize for calling him stupid all those months ago, doesn’t want to talk about himself at all.

He just… wants to be like Namjoon. Someone safe to open up to. He wants to be trusted with Namjoon’s broken pieces, to hold them close to his heart and protect them.

When Namjoon speaks again, though, it’s only to ask, “What would you have gotten a degree in?”

“I always wanted to study music, but I guess that doesn’t qualify as worthwhile.”

Namjoon laughs, nudging his shoulder against Yoongi’s. “I majored in Music Theory and Composition, you know.” Before Yoongi can consider burying himself in the garden to escape the embarrassment, Namjoon adds, “It didn’t get me very far, but I just wanted to be famous. I told myself if I could make it with my music, then my family would be set for life.”

“But you did make it, didn’t you?” Yoongi asks. “Maybe not in the way you imagined, but…”

“It worked out in the end, I guess. I do well enough for myself. But my sister ended up being the one successful enough to buy a house for our mom.” Namjoon shrugs. “Go figure.”

Yoongi sighs, looking toward the sky. It’s a lot to think about, a lot to unpack. They’re so similar, so different—opposite approaches to the same goal. In the end, they both ended up here: Pornstars standing in this little yard in Sparks, so close, but it still feels like there’s an ocean between them.

Yoongi wonders if Namjoon’s family is ashamed of him, the way Yoongi’s parents are. If they even know.

His eyes land on a row of sunflowers growing along the fence at the far end of the yard, bright and beautiful. Namjoon must catch him looking at them because he asks, “They’re pretty, right?” There’s an eagerness in his voice that Yoongi can’t ignore—they’re changing the subject, avoiding landmines.

“Yeah.” Yoongi moves toward them for a closer look. “I’ve never seen sunflowers up close before.” They are pretty. They’re pretty in the same way Namjoon is—so unlike any other flower, big and almost awkward, strong and warm like the sun itself.

A pair of arms slide around Yoongi’s shoulders, hugging him against a warm, solid chest. “Do you want to stay here for a while?”

Yoongi blinks out of his thoughts. “What?”

“We can just take it easy. Watch movies, take a bath. Whatever you want.” He’s rambling, but when Namjoon strokes the backs of his fingers down the center of Yoongi’s chest, it’s slow and delicate. “I had dinner plans with Jin and Hoseok. I don’t mind rescheduling, but they’d probably like to see you again if you want to join us.”

Yoongi frowns. “Don’t change your plans for me. I’ve already taken up enough of your time.”

“I want you to stay.” Namjoon’s arms tighten around him. “I just… I want to be near you. To make sure you’re okay.”

Yoongi huffs, letting his eyes fall closed as he relaxes into Namjoon’s hold. “I don’t think vanilla sex requires aftercare.”

He can feel the shift of Namjoon’s muscles under his back as he shrugs. “Maybe it’s not required,” he says, “but it’s nice, isn’t it? You seem okay, but—I don’t know. I’d feel better if I could keep an eye on you.”

He can suddenly hear Namjoon’s voice in his mind, a distant memory, insecure and vulnerable at the thought of ‘people who like hurting their partners’. The soft sadness in his eyes when he talked about his childhood.

Yoongi wonders if it’s connected. It doesn’t feel like his place to ask.

All he knows is that he can’t walk away. Whether or not he needs aftercare, maybe this means something to Namjoon.

Yoongi feels fine overall, physically and emotionally, but there’s some part of him that still feels raw. The part of him that wants to cry when he sees Namjoon with his plants, that aches with loneliness when he remembers he can’t have this forever.

It’s smart to stay. It makes sense to stay. Last night was intense for him, even if it wasn’t a scene. Staying with someone who can take care of him is common sense, but when Yoongi finally agrees, it’s only an excuse.

Namjoon kisses his cheek, then presses his face into the curve of his neck and inhales. Yoongi feels like something so precious, so loved.

“Thank you.” Namjoon angles his head, propping his chin on Yoongi’s shoulder so his voice isn’t muffled. “I’ll call Jin and let him know. But he won’t mind.”

Yoongi only nods, leaning his head against Namjoon’s and basking in the warmth of his hold. He’s staying for Namjoon, to make sure he’s okay, but there’s something selfish woven in.

He’s not ready to give this up and go home. He wants to pretend just a little while longer, wants to be with Namjoon in whatever capacity he’s allowed to have him. He wants to wake up every morning and have coffee with Namjoon on the patio, wants to help him tend his little garden, to grow something together. To take the crops Namjoon harvests and cook something special for him, something more than the simple salads Namjoon is likely capable of.

It will never happen. When Yoongi leaves, things will go back to the way they were—for better or worse. If he can steal a few more hours like this, that will have to be enough.

Yoongi takes his own car to the restaurant, following Namjoon’s hybrid through the sleepy streets. Namjoon had offered to give him a ride, but Yoongi had bothered him long enough. He’s going home after this, no matter how much the thought of being alone stings.

But he needs to be alone. He needs to go home, back to normal, if only to make sure he’s really okay. To make sure he doesn’t fall apart without Namjoon holding his hand.

They end up pulling into the parking lot of a diner tucked away from the main road, a warm, cozy light emanating from inside. When Namjoon meets him at his car so they can walk inside together, all Yoongi can think about is the last time they met Jin and Hoseok. It had felt uncomfortably like a date, formal and awkward, and Yoongi had been trying so hard to ignore the small part of him that wanted it to be one.

It doesn’t feel that way now. They’re closer, their hands brushing as they walk, but it’s easy. Comfortable. Namjoon still opens the door for him, still speaks to the hostess to get a table for four. Then, with casual confidence, he adds, “Oh, and can we get a table in the corner or something? Or against the wall, if that’s not possible. I just prefer not to be in the middle of the room, you know?”

“Absolutely,” the hostess says, smiling as she grabs a stack of menus. “I totally get it—I’m the same way.”

Namjoon flashes him a smile as they follow her to their table, and Yoongi doesn’t care whether or not it’s a date. Because he’s here with someone who cares about him, listens to him. Someone who asks for the things Yoongi needs without making a big deal about it, acts like he’s asking for himself instead of putting the spotlight on Yoongi. Someone who makes Yoongi feel normal, like his comfort matters—not just to Namjoon, but in the big picture.

“Is this okay?” the hostess asks, pausing next to a secluded little corner table.

Namjoon meets his eyes for a second, quick and fleeting, but it’s enough. He must know how to read all of Yoongi’s expressions by now.

“This is perfect,” he tells the hostess. “Thank you.”

It doesn’t fucking matter if this is a date, because Yoongi will never find someone who makes him feel the way Namjoon does. He can’t put a price on that, can’t force it to be something it’s not. If Namjoon only wants to be his friend, that’s okay. Yoongi is goddamn lucky to have him.

They slide into one side of the booth, pressed together from knee to hip. Namjoon’s thigh is firm and warm against his own, so much bigger now that Yoongi sees them next to each other like this. It’s… unexpectedly hot.

He shifts in his seat, crossing his legs.

“Are you sore?” Namjoon asks quietly.

Yoongi shakes his head, his cheeks warming. “I’m okay. Um, thanks for this,” he adds, gesturing to their table, just to change the subject. But he means it—more than Namjoon will ever know. He opens his mouth to tack on an apology, something about being an inconvenience, being selfish and needy, but he stops himself.

Namjoon didn’t make him feel like an inconvenience, nor did the hostess. Maybe, just this once, he can stop looking at his needs as something negative. It’s just the way he is, feelings that are outside of his control, and all that matters is the fact that Namjoon cares.

Yoongi lets out a breath, forcing himself to relax. “I can’t believe you remembered my weird table preferences.”

Namjoon smiles, broad and bright, and the energy between them changes. “Of course I did. I had to impress you somehow.”

“Impress me?” Yoongi slips on his glasses, looking at the menu to hide his smile. “I’m more impressed by your ability to remember where I like to sit than your stroke game, you’re right.”

Namjoon ducks his head, laughing breathily into his hand, and Yoongi has to bite his lips to keep from joining him.

“And neither of those compare to the time you remembered my favorite bath bomb fragrance, so…” Yoongi shrugs. “You need to step it up.”

Namjoon collects himself, lowering his hands from his face, but the smile still lingers on his lips. “No problem,” he says. “I have some ideas.”

The sincere delivery is probably part of the joke, but it catches Yoongi off guard anyway. Before he can think of a response, the hostess reappears at the table with Jin in tow. It takes Yoongi a moment to recognize Hoseok, hovering just behind Jin’s shoulder, but it’s the big, beautiful smile that gives him away.

His cropped platinum hair has been traded out for a deep, natural brown, longer and a little wavy, a little messy. Even though he’s dressed more casually this time, the oversized black t-shirt and disheveled hair still look more artful than anything, the silver of his day collar standing out in contrast. The pair of them still seem larger than life, strangely out of place, too polished and perfect to be here.

As soon as Jin and Hoseok are seated on the other side of the booth, the four of them fall into a natural conversation, slipping into Korean somewhere along the way. It doesn’t feel like it’s been months since they last saw each other, but somehow, it doesn’t quite seem as easy as it did last time.

Maybe it’s in Yoongi’s mind, but Jin and Hoseok’s eyes seem to linger on him just a little too long, shooting glances at each other when he speaks. By the time Yoongi realizes he’s stopped talking, it feels too late to jump back into the conversation.

So he listens, stirring his food around and trying to ignore the anxiety prickling at the back of his neck.

It’s not until Jin lays down his fork, straightens in his seat, and clears his throat that Yoongi is addressed again. “So,” Jin says. His smile is as warm as ever, even if something in his eyes makes Yoongi uneasy. “It sounds like you two are spending a lot of time together lately.”

Yoongi stiffens. Namjoon wouldn’t have told them anything personal, but he doesn’t know what they’ve been told at all. He doesn’t even know the excuse Namjoon provided for dragging Yoongi along tonight.

But both Jin and Hoseok are looking at him, waiting for an answer. Namjoon’s hand slides onto Yoongi’s thigh beneath the table.

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, aiming for nonchalance. “I guess we have.”

The pause that follows probably isn’t as long as it feels. But Jin and Hoseok are just looking at him, waiting, and Yoongi has no idea what he’s supposed to say.

“We were just hanging out today,” Namjoon says, a little too quickly to be casual. At least Yoongi isn’t the only one caught off guard by this. “Watching movies and stuff. I bored him with a garden tour.”

Yoongi smiles. “It was excruciating. I’m lucky to be alive.”

“I do love to torture you.” Namjoon squeezes his thigh, quick and promising. It’s a fucking joke, but it still sends a brief rush of heat shooting up Yoongi’s back.

Yoongi manages a laugh, ducking his head in case he’s blushing. This isn’t a great time to imagine another scene with Namjoon, stripped down to his most vulnerable, submissive core—especially now that he can imagine taking it further. He knows what Namjoon feels like inside him. To experience that when his body is already pushed to its limit…

He can’t imagine what it would be like. All he knows is that he fucking wants it.

And he shouldn’t be thinking about it in front of Namjoon’s friends.

Namjoon’s friends—who are just looking at him. Smiling, but not laughing.

“Oh,” Jin says, his eyebrows shooting up. “Have you two been playing together?”

“Guys—” Namjoon’s hand jerks away from Yoongi’s leg, and everything seems to happen at once. His arm knocks into his drink, and Yoongi lunges forward to catch it, his elbow slamming against the edge of Namjoon’s plate and flipping it up like a catapult.

The good news is that his drink is spared.

The bad news is that the remainder of his dinner is now in his lap.

Hoseok howls with laughter, collapsing against Jin’s side and clapping delightedly.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Yoongi says, yanking napkins from the dispenser that Jin pushes their way. Even Jin’s laughing, loud and squeaky. They have to be drawing attention to themselves, but Yoongi can’t bring himself to look around.

All that matters is that Namjoon is laughing, too.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Namjoon catches his wrist, stopping him from wiping at the ketchup on his jeans. “I mean—that was kind of impressive, right? We couldn’t have done that if we tried.”

Yoongi huffs out a laugh, shaking his head fondly. He picks a few stray fries out of Namjoon’s lap and tosses them onto the plate.

“I think I’ll need more than napkins to clean this up anyway,” Namjoon adds. He squeezes Yoongi’s wrist before letting him go, and Yoongi slips out of the booth to give Namjoon room to get up.

At least he had mostly finished eating, so all that falls to the floor are a few more fries and a discarded tomato from his burger. The real mess came from the excessive blob of leftover ketchup he’d had pooled on the edge of his plate. It hit him like a cartoonish blood splatter: speckles of red on his face, a dripping spot on his shirt, and even more smeared across his jeans.

“I’ll be right back,” Namjoon says. He heads toward the bathroom while Yoongi slides back into the booth, grabbing a napkin from the pile to wipe up the spots of ketchup that hit the white pleather seat.

“That was legendary,” Hoseok gushes.

Jin nudges Hoseok’s side, laughter still sparkling in his eyes. “Help Yoongi clean up.”

“It’s fine,” Yoongi says quickly. He balls up the napkin and adds it to the collection on Namjoon’s plate. “Most of it hit Namjoon, I guess. That’s what he gets for being so fucking broad.”

Yoongi inspects the seat one last time before turning and settling back into his spot. That’s when it hits him that he’s alone with Jin and Hoseok, the awkward tension falling back over them. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, but he has to at least try to make this right.

“Um. I’m sorry for imposing on you guys. Again. Namjoon said you wouldn’t mind, but I should have—”

“We don’t mind,” Jin interjects.

“He seems really happy with you,” Hoseok adds. “It’s nice to see him like this.”

Yoongi blinks. “What do you mean?”

Hoseok cocks his head, giving Yoongi a look that’s somewhere between pity and wonder. “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. He just seems… happy. Relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in a long time.”

That’s it? Happy and relaxed?

“He’s always like that,” Yoongi says. Even thinking back to when they were strangers-slash-enemies, Namjoon was always smiling, even if it was almost overshadowed by how awkward he was. He’s still awkward, but maybe now it does seem more natural, rather than an awkwardness that comes from trying too hard.

But that has nothing to do with Yoongi. Namjoon was still new to porn, unfamiliar with hanging out with pornstars offset, caught off guard at every turn. There are probably few things that would surprise him now. He’s even gotten used to the casual kisses and nudity around the house.

Jin sighs as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together seriously. “Look. We’ve known Namjoon for a long time, but he’s like…” He trails off, clicking his tongue as he searches for the right word in Hoseok’s eyes.

“A golden retriever,” Hoseok supplies.

Jin nods, smiling. “A golden retriever, yeah. He gets attached easily. Once he fixates on someone, he cares for them completely. His life revolves around making them happy.”

Yoongi lowers his eyes, picking absently at the edge of his nail. Namjoon’s done so much for him—too much. More than Yoongi can ever hope to repay. “I know.”

Jin huffs. “You know. Of course you do.”

The words trickle down Yoongi’s spine like ice water, a disdain in Jin’s voice that sounds so out of place. Yoongi jerks his head up, searching Jin’s eyes. “What?”

“What are you doing with Namjoon?” Jin asks directly.

Yoongi’s heart plummets into his stomach. “You don’t think… You think I’m using him?”

“Of course not,” Hoseok cuts in. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We just—we want to understand your side.”

His side?

What side?

The side that’s head over fucking heels but too afraid to say anything? The side that knows, deep down, that Namjoon is dominant, assertive—if he wanted Yoongi, he would have said something by now.

They’re just friends, whether Yoongi likes it or not. Whether his own friends like it or not.

Yoongi doesn’t know where to begin, or what to say to keep from humiliating himself. It’s a fear that threatens to lock his voice inside him, and the realization that his silence will make things worse only puts more pressure on him, making it even harder to speak.

“He makes me happy, too,” Yoongi says. He sounds normal, but each word feels like it’s made of lead, forced out of him with a physical effort. “I would never do anything to hurt him.”

Jin sighs, leaning back in his seat. “I just don’t get it. Are you in an open relationship or something?”

Yoongi bites at his lip, a threatening pressure behind his eyes. “We’re not in a relationship at all.” Saying it out loud hurts worse than it should, even though it’s not a surprise. It’s the last thing that shatters the illusion from this morning—slowly waking up entangled in each other, sharing coffee on the patio—none of it is his to keep.

“No, not with Namjoon,” Jin says. “I’m talking about you and your boyfriend.”

The words hardly make sense, floating in front of his mind as if they were spoken in a language he recognizes but can’t quite recall. He heard them plain as day, but they don’t mean anything. He doesn’t have a boyfriend, he hasn’t had one in a long time, and he doesn’t know why the fuck Jin would even think that.

“My—?” he manages, but that’s all he gets out before a hand lands on his shoulder.

“I think these clothes are a lost cause,” Namjoon says, giving Yoongi’s shoulder a little squeeze as if to tell him it’s okay, he’s not upset, he doesn’t blame him.

It’s not as comforting as it should be. Not when Yoongi’s heart is racing so rapidly he feels sick, his throat tight, his mind reeling. What could he have possibly said to make them think he has a boyfriend? Does Namjoon think that? Did they hear it from him? Is that why they think—?

“Am I interrupting something?” Namjoon looks between the three of them, so lost and sweet with the damp spots on his clothes, the ketchup stains standing out even on the darkened fabric.

“Not at all,” Jin says pleasantly.

Yoongi moves out of the booth so Namjoon can rejoin them, settling back in against his side. He’s barely paying attention when they order dessert, his mind far away.

He’s never said anything about a boyfriend. He knows that. Aside from bringing up his ex now and then—but that’s different. He knows he’s been clear about that. They broke up. And he just… hasn’t had it in him to date anyone since.

And then…

He remembers Jimin’s arms around him in the casino after the awards, the lingering taste of cherry lip balm, and Namjoon watching them from a distance.

He remembers Namjoon’s first day at the house, the way Jimin kissed him when he walked through the door, stroking his hair and calling him cute.

Flashbacks are rolling through Yoongi’s mind like snapshots: The time Namjoon caught them on the porch. The times Jimin told him he loved him. The times Namjoon asked about their relationship, the long distance, and why Jimin wasn’t the one helping Yoongi overcome his fears.

Jesus. What the fuck kind of relationship does Namjoon think they have? Two submissive bottoms who only see each other in Vegas and never have sex? And Jimin is just totally cool with Yoongi playing with Namjoon on the side?

It doesn’t make sense. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Yoongi wants to scream. He wants to laugh—at how stupid this all is. How stupid he is, how stupid Namjoon is.

Does it even matter? Will knowing that Yoongi is single even change anything?

Why would Jin and Hoseok know if it didn’t matter enough to Namjoon to tell them?

And what reason would he have to tell them, unless…?

“You okay?” Namjoon asks, a gentle hand tangling with Yoongi’s beneath the table, and Yoongi doesn’t know what he did to give himself away. But it strikes him once again just how closely Namjoon watches him, how familiar Namjoon is with all his tells, the subtle shifts in expression or posture that Yoongi isn’t even aware of.

It just makes Yoongi more sure.

He has to tell him. But not now—not with an audience.

When they leave. That’s when he’ll say something.

He squeezes Namjoon’s fingers. “I’m okay.”

He’s not okay yet, but he will be. As soon as they leave, as soon as he gets a chance to talk to Namjoon alone, he will be.

“You know you can stay another night if you want, right?” Namjoon asks as they walk across the darkened parking lot.

“I know.” Yoongi lets the back of his hand brush against Namjoon’s. “But I should go home. Water my plants. You know.” The only plant he has is a dying succulent in his bathroom window, but it was worth mentioning to see Namjoon smile.

“Oh. Well, that’s different.”

Yoongi stops next to his car, turning to search Namjoon’s eyes. “Do you need me to stay?”

“I’m okay,” Namjoon says, smiling. “Don’t let your plants die because of me.”

Yoongi nods, hesitating. It’s just the two of them, alone in the parking lot. Now’s his chance, but the confidence he had inside the diner has withered into an anxious coil. What if he’s wrong? What if he misinterpreted all of this?

What if Jin and Hoseok think he’s using Namjoon because they can tell he’s a diva, spoiled and obnoxious? The boyfriend comment seems so out of place. Maybe he made it up. Maybe—

Namjoon’s hand lands on his cheek. “Yoongi? Are you sure you’re okay?”

Yoongi presses his face into Namjoon’s hand, nodding.

He has to tell him.

He can’t.

He can’t ruin this—Namjoon’s steadfast presence, his gentle touches and comfort. Namjoon is just as capable of saying something as Yoongi is. If he wants more, he can say so.

But maybe he won’t say anything as long as he thinks Yoongi has a boyfriend.

Yoongi can at least clear up that much.

He draws a shaky breath, bracing himself, only to release it in a rush. How can he say he’s not dating Jimin in a way that sounds casual?

Namjoon’s thumb smooths along his cheekbone. “I can drive you home. I’ll just take an Uber back—it’s fine.”

Yoongi shakes his head sharply, leaning away from Namjoon’s touch. If nothing else, he’s going to make sure he doesn’t take advantage of Namjoon the way Jin and Hoseok seem to think he does.

“No, you don’t have to.” Yoongi unlocks the car, the headlights flashing briefly in the darkness. “Sorry. I guess… being around a couple like Jin and Hoseok just makes me aware of how single I am.”

Namjoon stares at him as if he’s never seen him before, eyes wide and lips parted, and there are a million things Yoongi wishes he’d say—that he wants more than just someone to play with. That he, too, has been overanalyzing every touch, every word, wondering if it meant anything. That he’s wanted this since the beginning, since that night in the kitchen with their mug cookies, when they truly saw each other for the first time.

He wishes Namjoon wouldn’t say anything at all—that he’d just step forward and claim what’s always been his.

But Namjoon only stands there, doing nothing at all.

Taking a step back, Yoongi opens the car door to put a barrier between them.

“I…” Namjoon seems to blink out of his trance, refocusing on Yoongi. “You—oh. Okay.”

Yoongi swallows dryly, nodding. “Okay.”

“They do have that effect on people, yeah,” Namjoon adds.

“Yeah.” There’s nothing else to say, but it doesn’t hurt as much as Yoongi thought it would. “Have a good night, Namjoon.”

Namjoon reaches out, tucking Yoongi’s hair behind his ear with gentle fingers. “You too,” he says. “Drive safe. Text me when you get home?”

“I will,” Yoongi says. In his mind, he can see a version of reality where he leans across the top of the door and kisses Namjoon goodnight. Where Namjoon kisses him back, cradling his face in his hands, and tells him that he loves him.

It feels so real. So close it’s almost tangible, a ghostly touch tingling against his lips.

But it doesn’t happen.

In this reality, Yoongi only gets into his car and drives away. And the pain still doesn’t come, even as he glances in the rear view mirror to see Namjoon watching after him, making sure he gets out of the parking lot safely.

This, asking for a text when Yoongi gets home—they’re not the love confession that some part of Yoongi must have hoped for. But they’re little declarations of love in their own way, even if it’s not in the way Yoongi wants.

But he can be happy with this. He is happy with this. He’s tired of fighting, tired of hurting, and for the first time in a long time, he feels like he doesn’t have to anymore.

Chapter Text

The buzz from his phone wakes him, and Yoongi blinks away the lingering grasp of sleep. He slides an arm out of the warm cocoon of sheets, pawing blindly at the nightstand until his fingers wrap around his phone.

Namjoon [09:32]
Good morning! I hope you have a good day today :)

Yoongi rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself. Namjoon has never bothered with good morning texts before, and the desperate side of Yoongi wants to analyze this, to make it something it’s not. He wants to focus on the fact that nothing has changed between them, aside from the fact Namjoon now knows he’s single. So if Namjoon is behaving differently, that means—

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Yoongi stops the thought before it fully forms. He can’t afford to get his hopes up. If he’s wrong, it will just be something else that hurts him, something he could have avoided if he didn’t let his imagination get away with him.

He can appreciate this for what it is: a nice, if not sappy, gesture from a friend.

Yoongi [09:34]
Good morning. You too. :)

Namjoon reacts to the message with a heart emoji. Yoongi puts his phone down and turns to bury his face in his pillow. Something warm flutters inside him, and his room feels a little brighter, his bed a little less lonely.

He’s still alone, but it feels different. It doesn’t bother him when he gets up and sets a lone mug on the counter. He stares across the empty kitchen as the coffee brews behind him, gurgling pleasantly. He doesn’t see empty chairs and the ghosts from his old life the way he usually does—all he sees is the clutter he had somehow become blind to.

A scattered collection of plastic drink bottles takes up a whole section of the counter, and while he only vaguely remembers knocking them over at one point, he must have never bothered to pick them up. The table is covered with plastic grocery bags, because it’s easier to deposit things there and tell himself he’ll put everything away later, even though he knows he never will. Everywhere he looks, there’s something. A section of the floor has been taken over by boxes and envelopes that had been torn open but never thrown away. Odd assortments of trash seem to come from everywhere, creeping out of the corners like an infestation. He can only see a small section of the living room from here—a chair surrounded by snack packages that he told himself he was leaving out for convenience only to never return to them.

It looks bad enough in the dark. When Yoongi makes himself turn on the light, it’s even worse.

He frowns, taking a long drink of coffee that burns on the way down. He has the whole week to himself since he bailed on his shoots—he might as well make the most of it.

Music blares from the speakers as he throws open the curtains in the kitchen, then the living room. In the sunlight, the thin layer of dust along the shelves is impossible to ignore. He starts on that first, just for instant gratification, and he falls into a rhythm from there.

After picking out something to wear from the basket of clean laundry that he never puts away, he takes the time to throw it all back into the dryer to fluff the wrinkles out, hanging everything up when the timer buzzes. Groceries are put away, trash is thrown out, and it’s been long enough that he has to remind himself how to use his vacuum.

How has he been living like this?

It’s like he was checked out of life all this time, going through the motions, only to be thrown back into himself with a jarring suddenness. It’s no wonder he felt so fucking bad when his home was devoid of life and warmth.

Nothing has changed, not really. Telling Namjoon he was single didn’t turn into the grand love confession some part of him must have been hoping for, but that’s… okay. It’s okay.

Yoongi thought he would feel worse if Namjoon still didn’t want him after finding out he was single, but he doesn’t. Everything is out in the open. Nothing is keeping Namjoon from making a move if he wants to, and Yoongi hadn’t realized how at peace he was with the idea of Namjoon not wanting to.

He’s still grateful for his friendship. Still grateful for everything they have, everything Namjoon has done for him. He’d prefer to enjoy what they have than agonize over what could be.

Besides, Namjoon has given him something more powerful, more permanent than a relationship.

Yoongi spends the following days doing over a year’s worth of cleaning. He opens the curtains each morning to let in the sunlight, turns his music up as loud as he wants, and enjoys the freedom of solitude. And it’s not bad, being alone. He and Namjoon text more often than not, and even Jimin calls halfway through the week to check in on him.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” Jimin says, careful and delicate, like he’s talking around something big. It takes Yoongi a moment to realize what, exactly, he’s referring to.

It’s only been a handful of days since Vegas. The last time Jimin saw him, he was a silent, terrified wreck, too afraid to be on camera. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“I’m okay,” Yoongi tells him. He’s said those words more times than he could ever hope to remember, but for once, they feel true. “I guess I just needed some time off.”

He can hear the smile in Jimin’s voice when he says, “You sound happy, Yoongi.”

Yoongi doesn’t stop himself from smiling back, even if Jimin isn’t here to see it. “I am. I think… I think everything’s okay now.”

Jimin starts chatting about his life, telling him about some photorealistic mural Jungkook painted on their wall out of the blue—“I didn’t even know he could paint, for fuck’s sake”—and it all feels so nice. So normal. Is this what life is supposed to be like? Is this how it feels to be alive when there’s nothing to be scared of?

Yoongi wanders into the spare bedroom as he listens to Jimin talk. The room hasn’t been used since the breakup, because the only visitors who stayed the night were his ex’s family. Over the past few days, Yoongi has been working on reclaiming it and turning it into an office.

The desk he’d ordered is half-assembled, and he pushes up his sleeves and puts Jimin on speaker as he finishes it up.

“Namjoon thought we were dating,” Yoongi says, sorting through the little bag of nuts and bolts to find the piece he needs. “Did you know that?”

“Are you serious? You can’t be serious. That dumbass, I swear to god—”

Yoongi snorts. “I know.”

“I guess that explains why he never said anything. Despite being, like, disgustingly in love with you.”

Yoongi ducks his head, his face warming. “I don’t think he’s in love with me.”

“Yoongi,” Jimin says flatly. Yoongi can almost picture him: hands on his hips, lips pursed, unamused. “Come on. You’re a bigger dumbass than he is.”

“Thanks.” Yoongi rolls his eyes as he tightens the final bolts.

“Wait. Wait—you did clear everything up with him, right?”

“Of course I did.”

“And he still didn’t do anything?”

“I told you.” Yoongi stands, grunting as he turns the desk upright. “He’s not in love with me.”

Jimin only sighs, long and dramatic. “How do you two manage to make being in love with each other everyone else’s problem? You could be kissing right now.”

“We kiss all the time.”

“You could be kissing without pretending you’re just bros helping bros.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” That’s exactly what he’s been doing. How the fuck does Jimin know?

Yoongi dusts the stray bits of styrofoam packaging off the smooth wood of the desk, smiling to himself as Jimin starts talking to Jungkook in the background. It feels good to build things. To change up his surroundings. But the desk looks a little too neat, a little too empty. He’s not a big decorator, but he must have some little knickknack he can put out to make it look a little cozier.

When his gaze lands on the closet, he knows exactly what he wants. The shape of the trophies themselves has always been surprisingly tasteful, despite the nature of the awards: two golden figures wrapped around each other in a suggestive embrace. There’s no reason to hide them, even if the scene names engraved on each plaque tend to be graphic.

This is who he is. What he does. He deserves to show off his accomplishments, if only to himself.

“Sorry,” Jimin says. “Kookie wants to paint the entire house. So I guess that’s his thing now.” Yoongi can hear the eye roll, but he can also hear the underlying fondness. “You should come over sometime. When he’s done. I know it’s a longer flight than you’re used to, but—”

“I want to,” Yoongi interjects, before Jimin can give him an excuse not to. “I don’t think it’s that much longer.” He’s surprised to realize that he does want to. He’s never actually visited Jimin in Arizona, and it’s just another thing on the long list of ways he’s failed his friends.

But he can do it now. He’s better. He feels better. Nothing is off-limits.

“Hey, so…” Jimin’s tone changes and Yoongi’s defenses rise. It sounds too careful, too casual, like the whole conversation was an excuse to lead up to this. “Can I ask about—you know—Vegas?”

Yoongi pauses, his hand resting on the closet door. He lets his hand drop as he takes a step back.

“It was nothing,” he says. “Nothing worth talking about.”

The trophies can wait, and it’s not because he doesn’t want to see them right now. It’s just that he should take a break. It’s probably getting close to lunchtime anyway.

“Yoongi…” The silence feels loaded and expectant. Yoongi tightens his grip on the phone. He doesn’t want to talk about this. “Okay,” Jimin says finally, sighing. “Okay. I’m always here if you want to talk. About—that. Or anything, really. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Yoongi says. He does know. But he doesn’t plan on talking about that scene, the Dom, or Robert ever again. There’s no reason to. Subbing and bottoming aren’t ruined for him anymore. Those things make him think of Namjoon now, the bad memories buried deep beneath the care and safety Namjoon provides.

That’s all he needs.

By the end of the week, the house is clean and cozy. At some point over the past year, he’d forgotten how much he once loved cooking. But his kitchen is stocked with actual ingredients instead of pre-packaged meals, and he’s been taking the time to make dinner each night. It’s just another thing he gets to take back, another uncovered piece of himself that he thought was lost forever.

Yoongi is adding a square of instant ramen to the boiling pot of budae jjigae when his phone buzzes on the counter behind him. He cuts himself off mid-hum, wiping his hands on the towel that’s tucked into the front pocket of his pants. He picks up his phone, smiling at the name onscreen.

Namjoon.

Yoongi pauses his music to answer. “Hey, you.”

“Yoongi,” Namjoon breathes, and something twists in Yoongi’s chest. “Hey. I just—wanted to check on you.”

“Check on me?” Yoongi frowns, moving back over the stove to prod at the block of ramen floating on top of the stew. It’s been a week since they had sex. And maybe at the start of the week, Yoongi had second-guessed himself and tried to convince himself he was falling apart, but he’s fine now.

He finally feels like he has control again.

And Namjoon knows that, so this seems like a weird time to check on him.

“I’m fine, Namjoon,” he says. Maybe Namjoon just needs to hear it again. “Better than fine. You know that.”

Namjoon lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he says, but he sounds unsure. Shaken.

“Namjoon?”

“No, that’s good,” Namjoon says quickly. “I guess I just needed to hear your voice. I didn’t know you were ready to shoot a scene like that, but—”

“What are you talking about?”

“The scene that was posted today,” Namjoon says. “When did you shoot that? Sometime this week, I guess?”

“I haven’t been out to Vegas at all this week.” Yoongi turns, leaning back against the counter and scuffing his foot against the floor absently. “And I definitely haven’t subbed on camera. Was something posted? It was probably just leftover footage from an old shoot. They do that sometimes.”

Namjoon makes a soft sound of acknowledgment, drawn out like he’s lost in thought. “You were subbing, but… None of it seemed familiar,” he says finally. “The set, the Dom you were with…”

“Are you really looking at the Doms in my scenes?” Yoongi asks teasingly, even as nerves prickle up his back. It’s not a big deal; he just needs to look it up and see for himself.

He leaves the warmth of the kitchen, the stew bubbling comfortingly behind him, and opens the door to the office.

“It just felt wrong,” Namjoon says as Yoongi types the password for his laptop. “It was… I don’t know, it was normal at first, but it seemed to end so abruptly…”

Something in Namjoon’s tone makes Yoongi’s hands tremble, a cold weight settling in his chest. But it’s nothing—this is nothing. Just some old footage, like he said. It couldn’t be anything else.

He knows that. So why does his heart sink when he sees the barrage of notifications on social media?

“I’m pulling it up right now,” Yoongi says tightly, scrolling through a blur of comments, looking for the most recent video in which he had been tagged. He’s mentioned in so many posts, more than he’s seen in a long time, and they all seem to have one thing in common: the posters are so fucking happy he’s subbing again.

Namjoon sucks in a breath. “Wait a minute…”

“Who posted it? I have a fuckload of notifications.”

“Yoongi, wait,” Namjoon says urgently. There’s a flurry of movement on the other end, rustling clothes and slamming doors. “Don’t watch it, okay? I’m coming over.”

And that’s when Yoongi sees it.

‘You asked for it,’ the post reads, ‘and we delivered! Ready to see Suga get railed for the first time in YEARS?? We put him in his place and left him sobbing for more!’

He can tell what it is from the thumbnail. It’s only from his shoulders up, but it’s enough: the angle of his head, the empty look in his eyes, the hand pressing down on the back of his skull.

“Yoongi, wait, I’m serious—”

Yoongi’s phone slips out of his hand, tumbling across the floor. It feels like someone else is controlling him when he watches himself click the link.

It jumps right into it: No opening interview, no lead-in. There’s only the set straight out of his nightmares, like a warehouse with cold cement floors. And he’s faced with himself, immobilized, as the Dom approaches him.

And it’s so—

Tame.

Normal.

There’s a spark in his eyes, and pleasure is woven into each ragged sob. His back arches, lifting his ass for more when he’s struck, and he has to be held back by his hair when he lunges forward with the animalistic need to please.

It’s nothing unusual. Nothing shocking. The Dom isn’t doing anything noticeably wrong, and that almost makes it hurt worse.

Yoongi always told himself that the scene was good until he lost the ability to speak, but maybe some part of him had always hoped it wasn’t. Maybe he hoped that if he ever had the opportunity to see the footage, it would prove he had been suffering the whole time, and all of the sleepless nights and fear afterward were rational. Maybe he hoped it would show Taehyung had ignored or overlooked obvious red flags, or that it would be clear the director and the Dom were predators who abused subs on purpose. Maybe it would give him someone to blame, concrete proof that all his pain could have been avoided if anyone cared enough to pay attention.

He feels sick seeing the version of himself on screen relax and let go, letting the pain and humiliation take him higher and higher. Because he knows where it’s going. Because torture without care afterward is just torture. Because he was pushed around and mocked and slapped, and he was good, taking it without complaint, but he endured it all for nothing.

The video abruptly cuts from one position to the next, like a stop-motion nightmare, like a poorly edited compilation—and that’s all it is, really. They never finished filming, so all the editors could do was stitch together what they had.

And with each shot, Yoongi feels a little farther away. The scenes play out with the surreal distance of a dream, the sounds of his own moans muffled as if coming from underwater, barely drowning out the Dom’s berating words.

He can almost feel it when the Dom shoves him down with a hand on the back of his head, followed by the telling pull in his neck, the uncomfortable twist that made his eyes widen on screen in a moment of genuine shock. And he sees himself open his mouth uselessly, forming the shape of his safeword, and sees himself give up as the Dom starts fucking him.

And as it keeps going, he watches his eyes go unfocused, watches as he stops reacting—not even to scream or moan or cry. He doesn’t even fight to move his head into a better position, doesn’t struggle the way he thought he did. Until, suddenly, he’s not looking at the face of someone who’s lost themselves to pleasure—all he sees is the face of someone who’s given up, checked out, withdrawn into themselves as a last line of defense.

The sound of the video cuts off as it ends, but Yoongi doesn’t know when he stopped watching it. He finds himself on his knees in front of the desk, his chair flipped back on the floor behind him, and he’s staring down into a pool of vomit through burning eyes. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, somewhere between eternity and a second. His knees ache against the hard floor, his gaze drifting, settling on a line of dust along the baseboard beneath the desk.

He must have missed that. While he was cleaning. How did he miss that?

It seems more important than the distant banging at the door, more important than the burnt stench radiating from down the hall. He jerks his hand, the bell ringing, but the pain doesn’t stop and he can’t catch his breath. The comments he’d skimmed past stab into him like knives:

‘more like this please???’

‘SUB SUGA FINALLY THE WORLD IS HEALING’

‘Suga has never been sexier omg look at him at the end’

‘Literally ending all my porn subscriptions bc this is the only video I’ll ever need holy shit’

‘about time he learned his place lets hope this stupid sub never tries to be a dom again or well see what happens’

There’s the sound of rapid footsteps in the hall, the padded thud-thud-thud of socks on wood, and it doesn’t seem to matter. The vague thought that someone could have broken in, that he could be in danger—it all seems so far away, so strange and foreign.

All he can feel is the acid burn in his throat and the pressure in his eyes, the weight in his chest and the weakness in his bones. He has nothing left—no energy to move, no desire to pick himself up. He’s tired of picking himself up, over and over, only to fall harder each time.

It’s not until the hands land on his shoulders that he realizes someone has been talking to him.

It’s not until he’s pulled against a broad chest, the words “I’m here—I’m right here” being pressed into his hair like kisses, that he realizes it’s Namjoon.

He didn’t think there was anything left in him to break, but his heart fractures right down the middle with a throb of pain that drags out a stifled sob, and he collapses into Namjoon’s arms.

“I’ve got you,” Namjoon tells him, quiet and fuzzy. It should be comforting, but it’s like it’s happening to someone else, no more than a line from a movie playing in another room, and Yoongi can’t feel anything at all. “I’m right here, okay? I’m so sorry, Yoongi, fuck—I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

Namjoon’s arms tighten around him, holding him close—closer. And Yoongi wants him to squeeze until it hurts, until the breath is forced from his lungs, just so he can feel something.

“I know it hurts,” Namjoon says. “But you’re safe with me, okay? I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe.”

Yoongi presses his palms against his eyes until colors erupt in the darkness, his fingers clawing into his hair. It’s a pain unlike any he’s ever experienced, a pain that knocks the breath from his lungs and rips open old wounds, rubbing them full of salt.

It feels too large to wrap his mind around, so horrible that he feels some part of his brain rejecting it. This didn’t happen. It can’t be happening.

He wants to scream until he runs out of breath. Wants to rip open his skull and yank the images of himself from his mind. Wants to scrub away every comment, every bit of praise, but the memories wrap around his throat like a noose.

And every time reality hits, it’s like the ground beneath him falls away and he drops hard, breaking his neck and struggling to breathe while the world watches on. But it’s too much, too horrible, and he’ll reel himself back up as if it never happened—only for it to hit again.

Over and over. A cycle of feeling too real and not real at all, of knowing and not knowing.

He’s not sure when or how he moves to a couch. There’s a mug in his hands that he doesn’t recognize, half-filled with a dark liquid he doesn’t remember drinking.

“Slow breaths,” a voice murmurs, lips against his temple. And Yoongi becomes vaguely aware that he’s breathing hard—one ragged, gasping breath after another.

“Shh… I’m right here. Breathe with me, okay? Like we do after our scenes.”

The mug is gone, replaced with a pair of hands. His breaths fall into a rhythm on their own, copying the example that’s being set for him: slow inhale, hold, exhale.

He focuses on the fingers wrapped around his own, tracing the pad of his thumb over neatly trimmed nails. He knows, objectively, that this hand belongs to someone, that it’s part of something alive, but nothing quite feels real. It’s just an object—soft and warm and familiar—but oddly unrecognizable at the same time.

He bends the fingers, extends them, and presses the palm against his own. It feels like nothing. It feels like coming home.

Slow inhale, hold, exhale.

“That’s it.” The voice is gentle, loving, and it scalds some tender part of Yoongi’s soul. “You’re safe. I promise. I know it might not feel like it, but you’re safe.”

It’s a lie. He’s exposed, vulnerable in a way that’s outside his control, a horrific realization flitting at the corners of his mind, a memory that he won’t let play out.

He wants to sink back into numbness, wants to turn off his mind so he doesn’t have to face it—this thing that feels like clammy skin and a racing heart in the middle of the night, the type of lingering nightmare that can only be warded away with a clutched pillow and eyes squeezed shut.

He thinks he stays there for a while—for days and weeks and years—or maybe it’s just a few seconds. Their fingers end up slotted together, hands resting loosely on Yoongi’s chest, and he finds himself staring at a shadow on the wall, trying to make it into a shape.

It’s cast in triplicate, lit from multiple directions, the ceiling fan making it flicker, and it looks like something from another world. Yoongi closes his eyes and wishes he could be somewhere else.

A gentle breeze touches Yoongi’s hair, clean and grounding, as an arm slides around his waist. He opens his eyes to a softly lit sky, the world around him heavy with shadows.

“Look.” Someone points past the black silhouettes of houses that almost look familiar, toward the soft orange glow in the distance. “Do you see the sunrise?”

Yoongi feels himself nod.

“When everything feels terrible,” a kind voice says, “I like to go outside and pick out things I can see, things I can feel. Just engage my senses, you know? It’s a technique my counselor taught me. Did you ever give them a call?”

Yoongi shakes his head, and a kiss is pressed against his cheek. Yoongi should hate being touched, being held in place against someone strong, but he doesn’t. He leans into it, desperate to feel something.

“It’s okay. We can talk about it later. What do you see?”

It doesn’t feel like the question is aimed at him, but Yoongi finds himself looking around anyway. It’s dark—he hadn’t noticed. But he can see wisps of clouds on the horizon, illuminated from beneath in brilliant light. He can make out the shapes of cacti standing up in slim columns from decorative planters and stone pavers that he somehow knows were placed to break up the monotony of a dry, lifeless yard.

He sees a lot, but none of it seems to matter.

“Just one thing.” The arm around his waist tightens, squeezing him gently. “Pick one thing and focus on that.”

A moth is fluttering around the porch light, a blur of long, dark wings and fluffy antennae, soft and delicate. It comes close to landing but seems to change its mind—over and over and over, always out of focus.

“Good. Perfect. That’s perfect, Yoongi. What do you hear?”

Yoongi lets himself focus on it: the dull buzz of the light, the quiet clinking of the moth’s wings hitting against the glass sides of the sconce.

He’s guided through it, one sense after another: he smells smoke somewhere in the distance, rich and deep like a barbecue. He can almost taste it when he inhales between his lips, sparks of spice awakening something inside him.

He feels the ground beneath his feet. The arm around his waist. The feeling of someone breathing, living at his side. And then, all at once: pain.

It wrenches in his soul, kicks him in the chest, and knocks the breath from his lungs. It’s sharp and vivid, a pain that shoots straight to his heart, and the arms around him catch him as he crumples. He feels sick, dizzy, angry. He’s ruined. His life, his reputation—everything.

He’s held against a broad chest while he cries, someone swaying him side-to-side and reminding him that he’s safe.

He doesn’t feel safe. He feels pushed out into the open, defenseless, and he doesn’t want to be here anymore. He doesn’t want to think about why he hurts, even though the memory is right there, lingering like a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. He can’t face it—not yet—not when it feels like Pandora’s box, and one peek inside will mark the end of everything he knows.

He clings to the person holding him because he has nothing else to hold onto, his face pressed against the curve of a neck. And even crying hurts—the weight in his chest, the horrible, ugly thing trapped inside him. He can barely breathe around it, his breaths shallow and frantic, and his mouth falls open in a silent scream.

He’s in bed when he opens his eyes, wrapped in Namjoon’s arms. And it’s Namjoon—of course it is. It always has been. But looking back, Yoongi can’t remember his face, can barely remember his voice. In his memory, Namjoon is nothing but a shadow, a mirage of a person in the desert.

Everything feels wrong. Like Yoongi was broken and put back together in a way that doesn’t make sense, backward and inside out, pieces shoved where they don’t belong. But there’s a numbness, a distance that feels surreal.

Time moves like molasses, warm and slow. Yoongi looks at the clock three separate times but it doesn’t seem to change, a frozen moment wrapped in cotton, his mind hazy and reality far away.

His cheek is pillowed on Namjoon’s shoulder, firm and solid beneath him, his chest rising and falling slowly. Yoongi traces a finger down a wrinkle in the fabric of Namjoon’s shirt, his hand trembling. The whole world seems to have narrowed down to this: the thin shaft of sunlight filtering in from the gap between the curtains, painting a white stripe over Namjoon’s torso. Dark shadows are cast in the gentle ridges of fabric, microscopic wisps of lint glowing around the edges.

And if Yoongi could live in this world forever, this tiny bubble of peace, everything might be okay. If Yoongi could shrink down until the fabric ridges become mountain ranges, until he can walk the trails he traces with his fingers, until he can hide in the warm proximity of Namjoon’s heart—

The cotton beneath his cheek is wet, tears from his right eye pooling heavily on the side of his nose. His next breath is a shallow stutter, and the arm looped around his shoulders tightens.

“I’m here,” Namjoon says, a whisper in the silence. “I’m here.”

Yoongi doesn’t know when they get up. Every moment afterward seems to happen in the past, coming to him in memories, and he’s not present for a single moment of it. All he has are snapshots, moments captured in sepia, grainy and out of focus:

They’re at the table with bowls of soup, and Namjoon is mid-apology for being unable to cook. Yoongi isn’t hungry, but he takes a bite despite the nausea churning in his stomach, because he knows Namjoon wants him to.

He’s back on the couch, lying against Namjoon’s chest as Namjoon reads to him. Yoongi can’t follow the story or make sense of the words. He doesn’t even know if it’s fiction or not, but Namjoon’s voice is soothing, and Yoongi watches dustmotes float through shafts of sunlight.

They’re walking down a hallway, hand-in-hand, and Yoongi doesn’t know where they’re going or why. There’s a closed door, and he freezes in front of it, numb and afraid, a deer staring into headlights. On the other side is a laptop, and on the laptop is—

Namjoon asks him what he smells, and Yoongi leans in to inhale the fragrance of the bath bomb cradled in his hands. Lavender. Tonka. They’re sitting in the empty tub, fully dressed, and Namjoon’s arms are wrapped around his waist. Yoongi doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

“I love you,” Namjoon tells him as they watch the stars. “I hope you know that. I really, really hope you know.”

Yoongi wakes up screaming, crying into his hands, the nightmare clinging to him with claws. He can see his own face in his mind, broken and empty, giving up and letting himself be ruined.

But it’s not a nightmare. It was never a nightmare. It’s out there forever, available for anyone to download—a stain on his soul, a wound that will never heal.

Namjoon is right beside him, sitting up next to him in bed, and he pulls Yoongi into his arms.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It was just a dream. I’m right here.”

And even if Yoongi knows it was real, Namjoon doesn’t have to. If Namjoon can believe that everything that happened to Yoongi was a bad dream, then maybe Namjoon will never let him go. Maybe Namjoon will still love him.

They watch another sunrise, then another, the sky going from orange to black to orange again.

“What do you see?” Namjoon asks.

Yoongi blinks and draws in a breath. “Birds.” It’s a whisper, his voice rough from disuse, but it’s real. Namjoon squeezes his hand and lets out a breathless laugh that sounds a little wet.

“Yeah. Me too.”

There are only a couple of birds out, silhouettes against the morning sun. In front of him is his own yard, the ugly planters his ex left behind because they were too heavy to move, the cacti Yoongi planted just because he knew his ex hated them.

“What else do you see?” Namjoon asks.

Yoongi turns, and for the first time in what feels like years, he sees Namjoon. He’s more than just a presence, more than a voice. The edges of his hair are highlighted in strands of golden light, his eyes heavy and shadowed, but still glittering with something like hope.

“You,” Yoongi says, and Namjoon’s smile is beautiful and devastating, his eyes squeezed into damp crescents. He pulls Yoongi into his arms, buries his face in his hair, and Yoongi can feel all of it.

It’s comfort. It’s warmth.

It’s Namjoon, and Yoongi loves him.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Namjoon says, “but I want you to know Taehyung got the video taken down. I don’t even think it was up for a full 24 hours.”

Yoongi pushes out a breath, blinking back the sting in his eyes. It’s good to know, but it doesn’t matter. The video already had thousands of views by the time Yoongi saw it. It’s probably already been reuploaded by now—it will never be gone for good.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

It’s a pain he doesn’t have words for, too big to overcome. It still feels like a dream until it doesn’t, until reality rips through him like a gunshot, and he wants to scream and cry and rip himself apart until he’s numb again.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Namjoon slides a hand across the table, his fingers brushing over Yoongi’s knuckles. “I’ll stay as long as you need me to.”

Yoongi turns his hand over, letting his fingers tangle loosely with Namjoon’s. He wants Namjoon to stay, but he doesn’t want Namjoon to ever look at him again. Not when he can barely look at Namjoon.

From the moment they met, Yoongi has done nothing but humiliate himself. His breakdown at Jimin’s shoot, then at the airport, calling Namjoon in the middle of the night even though he couldn’t speak. His cluelessness about basic BDSM, his discomfort with restaurants, losing his ability to speak at the most inopportune times, having a meltdown when Namjoon first tried to finger him.

But the past day—the past week, or however long it’s been—that’s worse. A nonverbal husk who was barely present, disassociating from the world because he’s too weak to accept reality.

But even worse than that is the video.

The thought of anyone seeing it is bad enough, but the thought of the worst moment of his life playing out in front of Namjoon… How is he supposed to live with that?

Especially knowing that Namjoon would have clicked on the video for entertainment, something to get off to.

Nausea squeezes in Yoongi’s throat.

“How much of it did you watch?”

Namjoon lowers his eyes. “Most of it. I wasn’t expecting to see a new video with you subbing, so I just… I guess I hoped you were finally comfortable with it again.”

“I’m not.” The words hurt on the way out, ending in almost a whisper. He feels like a disappointment. A failure. “I don’t think I can—I don’t know if it will ever be like it was. I don’t think I can sub on camera unless it’s with you.”

Namjoon smooths his thumb over Yoongi’s. “That’s okay. I wish I had noticed sooner. I mean, your hair isn’t even the same. I just wanted you to be happy so badly—”

“I know.”

“It’s just—when you watch porn, it never crosses your mind that someone could have gotten hurt for real. Like, why would anyone upload that?” Namjoon’s grip on his fingers tightens. “But when I saw your face at the end… I knew. I didn’t know it was that scene, but I knew something was wrong. That’s when I called.”

“But you liked it,” Yoongi says. Something is writhing in his chest, anxious and afraid, and he blinks back the ache behind his eyes. “The beginning of it. You liked it.”

“I mean…” Namjoon shifts in his chair. “You know how much I love your videos. You’re always perfect.”

It feels just as hollow and callous as all the comments he’d seen. He’s nothing but a prop, an object, unfailingly perfect. He’s not an actor, a person trying his best—a person who was hurt.

“Perfect,” Yoongi repeats, the word bitter on his tongue.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Namjoon says. Again. There was never anything off-limits between them. Namjoon never made him feel fragile or broken. But Yoongi is both of those things, he always has been, and now Namjoon knows it.

Like everyone else, Namjoon will spend every moment walking on eggshells, avoiding dangerous topics, treating Yoongi like he’s different, something to be handled with care.

But there’s one more thing Yoongi wants to know:

“Did you get off to it?”

He feels Namjoon stiffen. “What?”

Yoongi doesn’t let himself look away, forcing himself to focus on Namjoon’s face. The answer is there, in his eyes, but some part of Yoongi wants Namjoon to say it. “You heard me.”

“I thought it was a normal scene,” Namjoon says, his words coming out just a little too fast. “It wasn’t exactly realistic BDSM, but you seemed to be enjoying yourself, so I never would have—”

“Tell me.” Yoongi yanks his hand away. The rage inside him is sudden and unexpected, the pain and humiliation like gasoline, igniting from a single spark. “Yes or no. Did you, or did you not, touch your fucking dick—”

“Yoongi—”

“Tell me!”

Namjoon flinches back as Yoongi slams his hands against the table with enough force to hurt, to rattle the empty mugs and the overflowing ashtray. And that only makes him spiral even harder, unravels him even faster. He remembers so little of the last few days, and an ashtray filled with cigarettes he doesn’t remember smoking is the breaking point.

And Namjoon at least has the decency—or the fucking audacity—to look into Yoongi’s eyes when he says, “Yes.” It cracks on the way out, weak and wrecked. “But just at the beginning, Yoongi, I swear—”

The scream comes from some feral, shattered place inside him. The mugs and the ashtray explode against the floor as Yoongi shoves himself away from the table, and he staggers as his legs tangle with the chair.

“I’m so sorry,” Namjoon says urgently, pushing himself away from the table and reaching for him.

Namjoon is barely out of his chair when Yoongi snaps, “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Okay.” Namjoon swallows hard, blinking rapidly. “Please just—try to understand. If I’d known…”

He’s still talking, but it fades under the roaring pulse in Yoongi’s ears. Namjoon is supposed to know. He always knows. He’s supposed to be able to read Yoongi’s mind from a slight shift in body language or a look in his eye. He should have taken one look at that video and known.

If Yoongi can’t trust Namjoon, then he can’t trust anyone.

“Get out.”

Namjoon cuts off mid-apology. There’s an expression on his face that Yoongi can’t bear to look at—small and lost, devastated. All the things he was never meant to be.

“I—I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

“Get out.” It comes out louder, borderline hysteric. Yoongi can feel himself shaking, a violent tremor that starts deep in his chest. And it hurts. His eyes are burning, and pain sits like a spike in his throat as he swallows back tears.

Namjoon searches his face, a wet gleam in his eyes that Yoongi pretends he doesn’t see. Namjoon finally nods, seemingly to himself, shrinking back as he wraps his arms around chest.

His mouth opens, closes, and opens again, shaping out words he must know better than to say. And then he’s walking away, slipping past Yoongi on his way to the door, his shoulder knocking against the wall as he leaves a wide space between them.

Yoongi doesn’t watch him go. He stares sightlessly at the chair Namjoon abandoned, hot, angry tears gathering in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon says from behind him. “I’m so fucking—I just… want you to know that. I’m sorry.”

With that, the door creaks open, then closes again with a soft click. When Yoongi looks over his shoulder, Namjoon is gone.

He’s alone.

The final thread keeping him standing snaps, and Yoongi collapses to his knees with a sound that’s somewhere between a scream and a sob, burying his face in his hands and clawing at his hair. Grief slams through him like a storm surge, pushing the breath from his lungs and forcing out a flood of tears.

The bell jingles softly against his wrist as he wipes at his eyes, the teal ribbon worn and frayed. It breaks easily when Yoongi rips the bell away. He throws it with as much force as he can muster, and it skitters across the floor, ringing like laughter until it clacks against the wall, going silent.

And there’s no reason to get up, no reason to collect himself and move on. There’s no reason to do anything anymore. He sinks onto his side, the weight in his chest too heavy to bear. And he lies there, curled in on himself amidst the broken ceramic and old cigarette butts, and lets himself cry.

It’s dark by the time Yoongi manages to pull himself off the floor. Mechanically, he moves to the cabinet to grab a bottle of whiskey, then stops by the office to grab his laptop on the way to the bathroom.

He feels like he’s in a movie, a memory, when he sinks into the tub he hardly remembers filling. He places his laptop and the bottle on the tray in front of him, and he’s been here so many times.

The warm water isn’t even a comfort anymore. The darkness of the room only makes him feel more alone.

He takes a long drink as he opens up his laptop, flinching back against the sudden brightness of the screen. It hits him with a sudden headache, the pain in his eyes becoming that much sharper.

But it doesn’t matter.

He jabs at the brightness button until it’s a little more bearable, and then he can only sit there, his fingers trembling against the keyboard. He’s afraid to look. Some part of him knows it’s a bad idea, knows that it won’t fix anything, but that doesn’t stop him from navigating back to the notifications on his social media.

Each “omg so fucking hot” and “so good to see him back in his place” dig into him like hooks, stinging beneath his skin and tangling in his ribs.

He takes a drink, his eyes blurring and stinging as he continues to scroll.

“Free download link, thank me later,” is followed by a post from someone else, asking where the original video went.

There’s another post that says, “guys can we please stop sharing reuploads until suga says something about it.” There are speculations that it was an early leak, not meant to be seen yet. Most fans don’t seem to care, because they have it saved anyway.

In the mix of it all, some people have tagged him directly, asking if he’s okay, while the rest tell him to remember his place or they’ll break into his house for round two.

And Yoongi’s head is aching, throbbing, the bottle shaking in his hand. He can’t look at another clip from that video, can’t stand the screenshots of his face where he looks so dead inside, while everyone says it’s the hottest he’s ever been. But it’s everywhere: HD screenshots, 10-15 second clips of the worst moment of his life, ripped apart and consumed by hyenas—hungry for more.

Some comments even acknowledge that he looks broken, but that seems to be why they like it. No one seems to care about the shots in which he was really acting, having fun and enjoying himself.

His DMs range from explicitly detailed rape fantasies about him to genuine compliments on his performance, claiming it’s the best he’s ever done.

And that, more than anything, rips a hole inside him. The people who tell him he’s beautiful and perfect in the video. The people who tell him he deserves awards for subbing this year. The people who stopped supporting him as a Dom, only to fall in love with him again when they see the light leave his eyes.

He’s been trying so hard—so fucking hard—to get his career back on track after what happened, only for his fanbase to trickle away. After all the progress he’s made, all the steps he took to conquer his fears and put himself back together, he’s faced with this:

None of it matters. Because the moment he broke is the moment his fans love most of all.

He closes the laptop with shaking hands, the darkness of the room pressing in on him. His mind is too loud and too quiet all at once, his pulse roaring in his ears. He closes his eyes and sucks in a breath, scooting forward to allow himself room to lie back and sink beneath the water.

And everything disappears under the muted sound of bubbles and ripples, heavy and peaceful. He lets himself drift, his head floating the barest inch away from the bottom of the tub.

He has nothing left. His fans, his career. Namjoon.

But here, just for a moment, nothing hurts. The world fades away, the dark behind his eyelids infinite and soothing. It’s like all the times he’s felt outside himself, watching from a distance, everything so far away and unimportant.

Only, this time, he’s here. Inside himself, whole, the pain drifting away from him, unable to penetrate the cocoon he’s wrapped himself in.

The next thought comes quietly, a whisper in the dark: It would be so easy to just… take a breath. One breath, maybe two, and it would be over.

Would it hurt?

Even if it did, wouldn’t it be worth it?

For no reason at all, he thinks of Jungkook. The murals that he’ll never get to see. Jungkook is so important to Jimin, but Yoongi never made the time to get to know him. He always meant to.

And Jungkook makes him think of Jimin, of video games and synchronized smoke breaks. His easy affection, his soft voice: “You’re allowed to be happy, you know.”

He thinks of Jin and Hoseok, a window to a world he never understood, a relationship dynamic he both fears and craves. It’s with them that he ends up speaking Korean, feeling more at home in his skin than he ever has. He always wanted a chance to get to know them better, to prove he’s not someone who will break Namjoon’s heart.

Even though he probably did.

He doesn’t want to think of Namjoon, but thoughts come unbidden: the patience Yoongi has never deserved, the innate understanding from the day they met. The gentle smiles and warm touches, spending days at Yoongi’s side when Yoongi couldn’t even speak to him. The first person to say the words Yoongi never knew he needed to hear: “I believe you.”

He thinks of Taehyung’s arms around him, that horrible layover Yoongi was never meant to know about. “I’m always here for you,” Taehyung had said. “I hope you know that.”

Yoongi’s hands grip the cold sides of the tub and he hauls himself out of the water, coughing wetly, sobs breaking at the edges. Water pours from his hair, cascading down his cheeks and over his lips, droplets catching on each sharp inhale and burning in his lungs.

No.

He doesn’t want this, he never wanted this. All he wanted was to matter to someone—anyone—and maybe he always has. To a small handful of people in the world, he matters.

Shouldn’t he matter to himself, too?

He thinks of himself, so content in the days leading up to the scene being posted. The sureness, the peace that warmed him, the music that pulsed through his home like a heartbeat that he thought had long stopped. He wants to feel that way again.

He deserves to feel that way again.

Ever since that scene, he’s been looking for a safe place to lay a foundation, bury bad memories and find new happiness. He had a taste of it, but it was built on something that was never meant to last, retreating like sand pulled by a wave, bringing the memories to the surface.

Trophies and fans can’t save him, and neither can Namjoon. But that doesn’t mean Yoongi isn’t worth saving.

He reaches over the edge of the tub with wet hands, digging through his clothes for the familiar shape of his phone. He still has the number for the counselor Namjoon recommended, and he finally lets himself call.

It’s after hours. When the recording gives him the number for a crisis line, Yoongi’s resolve wavers and almost breaks.

It’s not that bad. He doesn’t want to use up resources for people who are really in need. He sits there, staring at his phone screen until it goes black.

Isn’t he in need? Isn’t it okay, just this once, to put himself first, to take up space, to exist?

His phone buzzes as a text comes through.

Taehyung [20:54]
Text me asap please i need to know you’re okay

And later, another.

Jimin [21:02]
Hi baby ily i just want you to know that

And it’s because of Namjoon, there’s no explanation other than Namjoon—still worried, still looking out for him, even after Yoongi kicked him out. Because he was right: Yoongi shouldn’t be alone. And Namjoon found a way to make sure Yoongi was supported—even if Yoongi doesn’t want him around.

God, Yoongi wants him around, even if it hurts. Even if he’s angry. Even if he feels betrayed in the worst possible way.

But right now, more than anything, Yoongi needs help. He wants it.

And when he calls the number for the crisis line, he’s not doing it for his career, or his fans. He’s not doing it to spite his ex, and he’s not doing it for Namjoon.

He’s doing it for himself.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come and stay with you for a while?” Taehyung’s voice is soft and careful through the phone’s speaker, washing over Yoongi as he stares up at his bedroom ceiling.

His first appointment left him feeling raw, turned inside out, his eyes aching from the tears he hadn’t planned on shedding. He’s not ready to face anyone—he just needed to hear a familiar voice. “I’m sure.”

Between Taehyung and Jimin, he’s had someone reach out to him daily ever since… Yoongi doesn’t even know what to call it. The day everything changed. And even though Yoongi hasn’t told them about Namjoon, what he did afterward—or what he thought about doing—they seem to know something happened. But they don’t press, taking his silence in response to their questions in stride.

Silence, at least, is one thing they know how to handle from him. So they fill it with soft words and simple topics—the weather, what they had for dinner, plans for the upcoming week that skirt around any mention of porn.

And it’s nice to have people to rely on, people who will fill the silence, who will talk to him and support him when he has nothing to say and nothing to offer in return.

But he’s always had them. He knows that now.

It’s not the first time one of them has offered to stay with him, and it probably won’t be the last. But it’s just as comforting as ever.

“Okay,” Taehyung replies, smooth and easy. No resentment, no judgment. “As always, the offer stands.”

“Thank you,” Yoongi says into the darkness. “I mean that.”

“I’m really proud of you for doing this. When is your next appointment?”

Yoongi sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “Same time next week. This one kicked my ass, so I don’t know if—”

“You can do it.” The interjection is quiet but firm, with no room for argument. There might be a scared, broken part of Yoongi that wants to bail, but he can’t. He won’t. He has to see this through. “Trust me,” Taehyung goes on, “a month from now, you’ll be thanking yourself.”

It’s hard to envision, but it’s all Yoongi has to hold onto.

In the meantime, he focuses on the small things. He keeps his house clean, cooking even when he doesn’t quite feel like it, and turning on music to fill the silence. Sometimes it’s nice. And sometimes it feels like he’s playing a part, pretending to be functional for an invisible audience. Why should his house be clean if no one comes to visit? Why bother cooking for himself when he feels like he can’t taste anything most days? Why shower and get dressed when he’s not going to see anyone? Why turn on the lights? Why get out of bed? Why?

“For you,” his counselor had said. “Doing it for yourself is enough.”

Some days, that’s easier to believe than others.

But time moves forward one day at a time, and Yoongi moves with it whether he likes it or not. He focuses on one breath at a time. One minute at a time, one hour, until the days don’t seem so hard to bear. Until the days blend into weeks, which blend into one month, then two.

Until the pain hits less like a gunshot and more like a shadow, something quiet that squeezes around his heart when he least expects it.

And the whole time, there’s a box in his mind, sealed up tight and labeled ‘Namjoon’, that Yoongi is too afraid to open. It helps that Jimin and Taehyung don’t mention him—Namjoon hasn’t come up a single time in their conversations, and it’s a relief.

Until it’s not.

Why wouldn’t they ask? What has Namjoon told them? If Namjoon told Jimin and Taehyung that they had a falling out, what would that mean? That he accepts it? Their friendship is over? Did he gloss over the details, or did he own up to getting off to the worst moment of Yoongi’s life?

Yoongi lets that thought play out, ignoring the urge to stifle it. And the questions that come after are familiar and exhausting: Why didn’t Namjoon know? Why wasn’t he able to take one look and know? Did he only ever see Yoongi as jerk-off material? Was Yoongi stupid and naive for ever thinking they could be more?

And then there were all the things Namjoon was supposed to be, all the things Yoongi held onto—clung to: The Dominant who watched Yoongi so closely, knew him so intimately, that it seemed he could read his mind. The perfect, selfless friend who could see through Yoongi’s bullshit, who saw him as someone worth waiting for. The gentle, understanding stranger who knew just what to say, who would let himself be put down if it meant lifting Yoongi up.

During one of their sessions, his counselor asked Yoongi why he needed Namjoon to be perfect. Yoongi still hasn’t worked out an answer. He can admit to himself—and out loud to his counselor—that the first part of the video was normal. Being mad at Namjoon for being unable to predict the future and know where it was going is unfair—to both of them.

And Yoongi knows that. He knows all of that. Maybe he’s just ashamed.

Because maybe he’s been unfair to Namjoon from the start. Maybe Yoongi has been indulging and reveling in the one-sidedness of their relationship without really realizing it—it’s easy to talk, to overshare, to confide in someone who radiates safety, someone who’s willing to sit down and listen.

It’s harder to be the person who listens.

Even when Yoongi’s words were trapped inside him, Namjoon never filled the silence with words about himself. He only offered new ways for Yoongi to communicate.

The truth is that Yoongi didn’t know a damn thing about Namjoon’s life until the glimpse Namjoon trusted him with in the garden. And Yoongi feels like shit for it, hates himself for it, because he wasted so much time and threw so much away.

But maybe they would have had more time if Namjoon hadn’t betrayed him.

And it hurts because this is the longest he’s gone without talking to Namjoon since the start of their friendship. Namjoon reached out to him only once, a week after Yoongi kicked him out:

I’m so sorry for hurting you. I wanted to see you happy, but I should have realized you wouldn’t have gone back to Vegas for a scene like that after canceling your shoots for the week. No matter what I thought at the time, I can’t imagine how much pain I’ve caused you, and that matters more to me than anything else. I want to make this right, but I understand if the best thing I can do for you is leave you alone. I know you don’t owe me a second of your time, but I owe you as much time as you need.

Yoongi didn’t reply. He couldn’t. In one session, he told his counselor that he sat with the message open for an hour, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard, searching for the right words to say. In the next session, he admitted that was a lie. He looked at the message one time, three days after Namjoon sent it, and flinched away from it like it was toxic.

He never looked at it again.

He shoves the memory of the message back into the box and tucks it away in the dark until he’s ready to face it.

“I want to tell my fans what happened,” Yoongi says during one session, biting at his nails and avoiding his counselor’s eyes. “After the video was posted… Some of them asked me if I was okay. I saw another one telling everyone to stop sharing the video until I addressed it. I think… I think some of them care.”

Even though he’s deleted all of his social media apps from his phone, he can imagine the growing pile of notifications—from people who are still obsessing over the video, and maybe from others who are concerned by his absence.

He always promotes his new videos. He knows it must look strange that he completely abandoned all of his pages after this video was posted, especially when it was deleted shortly afterward. The whole situation has to seem odd to anyone who’s paying attention—assuming anyone is paying attention at all.

“I think you’re right,” his counselor says. “What do you want to say to them?”

“The truth.” It’s easy to say when he’s in a cozy office with soft, warm light, a cushion hugged against his chest. When he gets home and stares into a cold, unblinking camera lens, he forgets everything he wanted to say, every word of affirmation that was offered to him.

He tries to start a million different ways, but they all feel contrived, humiliating: “I was involved in an unsafe shoot,” “the video from a couple of months ago was posted without my consent,” “I need to tell you what happened to me.”

He backs up and starts again, aiming for something more casual: “Hi everyone, it’s Suga. I have some bad news.” It sounds so stupid that he laughs until he cries, until the tears turn painful, until he feels stupid for trying this at all. He was accidentally assaulted—how’s that for some bad fucking news?

He slams his laptop closed and shoves it under his bed, retreating to the kitchen. His ongoing, weekly homework is to do something he enjoys, something that brings him comfort, even if he thinks he isn’t up to it. But it’s hard standing there alone when most of the recipes he knows are meant to feed four to five people. It’s hard knowing that he’ll spend hours working on something he won’t necessarily have an appetite for, and knowing there will be a pile of dishes waiting afterward adds insult to injury.

Still. Yoongi rolls his sleeves up and browses through the cabinets, reminding himself that it distracts him, clears his mind, and sometimes, he even ends up feeling proud of what he’s made.

He carefully dodges the drawer next to the stove, a dull echo of hurt quivering in his chest. He barely remembers shoving the ribbon and the bell into that drawer, but he stumbled across them a few weeks ago when he was looking for his long-lost garlic press. He didn’t end up cooking that night, sinking to the floor with his face in his hands, while his mind brought him back to the night he ripped the bell from his wrist.

His arm still feels naked, empty without the familiar weight, without the softly frayed edges of the ribbon tickling his skin. But it doesn’t comfort him anymore. It only reminds him of what he had, and what he lost—Namjoon, of course, but it’s bigger than that.

He doesn’t know how he’ll trust people in the industry who only see him as a product.

How he’ll trust fans who think he’s beautiful and perfect when he’s suffering.

How he’ll trust another Dominant when the one he loved most didn’t think to fucking talk to him before clicking on the video and touching his stupid fucking dick—

No.

Yoongi sucks in a shuddering breath, letting his eyes flutter closed. It was a mistake. Namjoon is human, and humans fuck up sometimes. It’s just that every time something goes wrong in Yoongi’s life, it’s an accident, and that doesn’t make any fucking difference—doesn’t make the pain any easier to bear.

At least Namjoon had apologized.

‘Owning up to their mistake and apologizing doesn’t mean you have to forgive them,’ Namjoon had told him once. ‘What they did to you was permanent, something you can’t forget. Your anger is allowed to be permanent, too.’

And it was comforting, at the time, to hear those words. He doesn’t want to forgive the people who ruined his life, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to, but… The thought of being angry at Namjoon forever just makes the pain in his heart hit a little more sharply.

When he finds himself curled up on the couch with a mug cookie overloaded with chocolate chips, he lets himself enjoy it. He closes his eyes and holds the mug a little closer to his chest, basking in the warmth, the familiarity. He can’t let the memory of Namjoon ruin the things he loves.

But there’s some comfort in the memory of Namjoon, too. Of that night in the kitchen, of mug sludge and hesitant smiles. Of a dishwasher filled with freshly cleaned sex toys.

A laugh sneaks out of him on a breath, and some part of him feels a little lighter.

He doesn’t mean to start journaling. He gets out his notebook with the vague thought that he might try writing lyrics again, channeling his feelings into something beautiful, but what comes out instead is just—

Feelings.

Raw and ugly, his pen pressing too hard into the paper, with no consistent rhyme scheme or rhythm.

He writes until his hand aches, until his thoughts come less like a torrent and more like a drizzle, until he has to wring the last words out of himself like the last droplets of water from a sponge. And in the moments that follow, his mind is quiet in a way he thought could only happen in subspace, the incessant static of fear, anger, and anxiety leaving behind a deafening silence.

He closes the notebook and sets the pen on top with deliberate reverence, wiping the tears from his face with his free hand.

It took longer than he thought, but Taehyung was right. Yoongi slumps back in his chair, exhausted, and thanks himself.

After that, it becomes a habit. When his thoughts get too loud, his mind moving too fast, he pulls out his notebook and writes. Sometimes he writes until he has nothing left, emptying every thought onto the page like he did the first time. Other times, he writes just enough to lower the volume, to focus his thoughts, setting the notebook aside after five to ten minutes because there are other things he’d rather be doing.

And every time that happens, he makes note of it. Because the realization that he wants to do anything at all is surprising enough on its own.

It’s never anything big. He cooks, sometimes he watches TV. He’s started going outside and sitting on his patio when the sun sets, focusing on his senses—one thing he can see, hear, feel, smell, and taste. And it’s helpful, grounding, but more than that, he’s found himself enjoying being outside and taking in his surroundings.

Over the past few months, he’s seen owls and colorful lizards; he’s heard the distant, overlapping yips and wails of coyotes and the soothing, forlorn coos of a mourning dove. There’s so much beauty around him that he never took the time to notice, and something about bearing witness to it in his own backyard makes him feel more alive than ever. He’s present, grounded inside himself, and at the same time, he feels like part of a world that’s still turning. He’s been hurt over and over, but life still goes on.

He starts writing down things he could say to his fans, stray thoughts and bits of phrases that don’t sound too ridiculous. He writes about fearing he has no fans left at all. He writes down the deep, dark truth that he hasn’t found the strength to vocalize during his sessions: That he can no longer picture a future in which he goes back to subbing in porn, that all of his practice and heartache was for nothing, that there’s no point in his career at all if he can’t do what he loves most.

Yoongi is sitting at his desk, absently twirling his pen between his fingers, when a text buzzes through on his phone. For one irrational moment, he’s terrified that it will be Namjoon—but he hasn’t heard from Namjoon in months. Two full months and half of a third, to be precise, but who’s counting?

He picks up his phone to find a text from Taehyung, asking if he wants to come out to Vegas. Yoongi’s heart drops into his stomach like a stone.

“Not for a shoot,” a second message clarifies. “Just for a change of scenery. I can come pick you up if you want.”

It would be easy to say no, to keep hiding, but some part of Yoongi is ready to try. His counselor had suggested returning to his old routine as much as possible, including travel, even if he wasn’t yet comfortable with going back to work. He might as well take the opportunity that’s been handed to him.

But that doesn’t make it easy.

He pretends he doesn’t see the message for a while, pretends to forget about it until he actually forgets about it. It’s not until the next morning, when he’s awoken by another text, that he’s finally forced to reply.

Taehyung [09:14]
Didn’t hear from you yesterday… You okay?

Yoongi presses his face into his pillow, groaning as guilt twists through him.

Taehyung [09:15]
You know you don’t have to come if you don’t want to
You can say no
Just do that instead of ghosting me please??

Yoongi sends back a quick “sorry” as he forces himself to sit up, dragging a hand through his hair. It’s a little too long at the moment, hanging loose and shaggy around his face. He types out his go-to excuse—that he didn’t get a notification for some reason—but changes his mind at the last minute.

Yoongi [09:17]
I wasnt trying to ghost you I just forgot to reply

That doesn’t sound much better, but at least it’s the truth.

Taehyung [09:18]
I figured. lol.
There’s a flight this Friday I’m looking at for you. Want me to book it?

Yoongi chews on his lip as he makes his way into the kitchen to start some coffee. He’s barely been out of the house in months—not in a way that really matters. He’s gone to each and every one of his counseling appointments, but that’s been the bulk of it. His occasional trips to the grocery store probably don’t count, since he’s taken to hiding out in his car while his pickup order is loaded into the trunk.

Which, granted, probably isn’t the healthiest thing in the world. But…

Taehyung [09:22]
👻🙄🙄

Yoongi huffs, smiling to himself.

Yoongi [09:23]
I dont think 5 minutes counts as ghosting but ok

His smile fades as reality sets back in. He really can’t put this off any longer. Taehyung has been so patient with him, so understanding, but Yoongi doesn’t want to push his luck.

It’s a combination of guilt and early morning recklessness that finally gives him the strength to reply.

Yoongi [09:24]
You can book it
I guess I need to get out of the house anyway

Taehyung [09:25]
Yay! See you Friday!!

The enthusiasm is infectious, and Yoongi finds himself smiling at his phone, a lightness in his chest. With the flight still a few days away, he can almost be excited about it. It will be nice to see Taehyung again. With any luck, Jimin might be in town, too.

He owes both of them more than he could ever put into words.

But on the day of the flight, Yoongi wakes up at four in the morning, too anxious to sleep, nausea keeping him trapped on the bathroom floor. He’s shaking and exhausted when he arrives at the airport twelve hours later, sweat pouring down his back, fear squeezing his lungs. The thought of getting on a plane feels like a death sentence now more than ever, and he finds himself wishing he’d accepted Taehyung’s offer to fly out for him.

But he needs to do this. He has to.

So he keeps with his routine, letting his body take over. He finds a place to sit by the windows at his gate, mechanically swallowing down a Xanax as he watches planes taxi around the runway.

He almost thinks about Namjoon.

He almost lets himself remember what it was like to have Namjoon beside him, keeping him calm, and making him feel safe.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he takes out his notebook, huddles in on himself to hide his words from anyone who might be curious, and writes—about how scared he is, how much he doesn’t want to do this, how sick he feels, and how tired he is.

And then, once he’s gotten down all the negative things, he forces himself to write down the things he’s proud of.

• Agreeing to come in the first place

• Leaving house and driving to airport

• Actually speaking to ticket agent and security

From there, it spirals into other things: he’s proud of himself for remembering to bring his notebook; for buying food and not being too anxious to eat it in public, because some part of him had been worried that he backslid in the months he stayed home; for taking his medicine to prepare for the flight.

And maybe that’s another thing to tell his fans: It’s okay to celebrate the little victories. To be proud of the things that might seem easy to other people. Most people would be too anxious to take their clothes off in front of a camera, but can easily navigate a crowded building. Yoongi is the opposite—so what? Everyone has different fears, different strengths.

He pauses, biting at the end of his pen. His fans almost certainly do not want a motivational speech from him—they probably just want him back on screen again as soon as possible. Still, he resists the urge to cross out what he’s written. He never allows himself to cross out anything—this is for his unfiltered thoughts, no matter how stupid they may be.

The wait at the gate usually seems to last a lifetime as he fights to keep his anxiety under control, but this time, he still has his notebook open in his lap when his boarding group is called. He’s surprised at how quickly it went by, how he distracted himself from how bad he felt.

It’s not a cure or a permanent fix, he knows that. With his notebook back in his bag, the anxiety starts creeping back in. He’s still afraid of crowds, of flights, but at least now he has a respite.

He keeps his eyes down as he gets in line to board, not allowing himself to search for a flash of silver hair in the crowd. Namjoon isn’t here, and even if he was, there’s nothing Yoongi can say. Something like, “hey, I’m sorry I ignored you for months, but I’m willing to acknowledge you because I need someone to hold my hand on this flight,” probably wouldn’t go over too well.

Or maybe it would. It wouldn’t be the first time Namjoon supported him despite Yoongi being awful to him.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. When he finally lets himself look, Namjoon is nowhere in sight.

Taehyung is waiting for him when Yoongi passes out of the secure area, hands tucked into his pockets, one shoulder propped against the wall. Yoongi hadn’t realized how much he missed him after so long, how much he craved a familiar face after the flight. He hefts his duffle bag more securely onto his shoulder and closes the space between them in a not-quite run.

Taehyung turns to meet him with a boxy smile, spreading his arms wide, and Yoongi lets himself fall into his embrace.

“Hey,” Taehyung says, squeezing him tight. “You made it.” He sounds a little too relieved, like he still thought Yoongi might actually ghost him, and Yoongi tries not to let that bother him. Even if that’s what Taehyung thought, it doesn’t make Yoongi a bad friend. It doesn’t have to mean anything at all.

It’s difficult to keep his mind from jumping to negative conclusions, but he’s trying. He’s trying.

“It was hard,” Yoongi admits, a slight waver in his voice. He steps back, wiping at his tired eyes as Taehyung takes his duffle bag. “But I think I needed this.”

“The hard part’s behind you now. All you have to do now is relax.” Yoongi knows Taehyung is talking about the flight, but it feels bigger than that. “Come on,” Taehyung adds, “I’ll take you home.”

The airport is crowded, loud. The lights bother Yoongi more than usual, bright and overwhelming, made worse by the tourists pushing past each other to get pictures next to the neon photo ops. It all blurs together, overlapping voices and dancing colors; all Yoongi can do is keep his head down, focusing on the back of Taehyung’s shoes as he follows him to the exit.

Taehyung doesn’t comment when Yoongi lights a cigarette as soon as they step outside, but when they arrive at his Cadillac, they wait outside in quiet understanding as Yoongi finishes up.

“It looks like the flight was smooth, at least,” Taehyung offers after he closes Yoongi’s duffle bag in the trunk. “Nice weather and everything. You made good time.”

Yoongi sucks in a hot breath of smoke. “Yeah. It wasn’t bad.” It really wasn’t, as far as flights go. It was still awful on principle, simply because he was trapped in the air, but it wasn’t bad. “Everything is just—I don’t know. The past few months have been…”

“I know,” Taehyung says. “God, I was so fucking pissed. I never would have imagined…” He seems to catch himself, biting his lip, like he knows this isn’t something Yoongi wants to talk about. “Look, just… They’re not getting away with it. It was a breach of contract. I’ve already been working with our lawyer.”

Yoongi’s heart sinks. The thought of this going any further, his trauma being laid out and dissected in front of cold, objective eyes… “I can’t,” he manages. “I don’t want to—”

“You don’t have to do anything. It’s not about what happened in the video—there’s nothing we can do about that. But they can’t post videos that don’t belong to them. Robert is just a terrible fucking person, and it caught up to him.”

Yoongi sighs, letting the remains of his cigarette drop onto the asphalt. He grinds it under his heel.

He probably shouldn’t like the thought of Robert being held accountable for something, but fuck it—he does. Especially if it means his stupid fucking studio gets shut down, or at least makes it harder for him to find actors willing to work with him. People talk. This wasn’t an accident or a misunderstanding; the video was posted specifically because Yoongi refused to do another shoot with him. And that—Yoongi can’t think of a single person he’s met in this industry who would let something like that slide.

“Hey.” Taehyung’s voice softens. “Look, we don’t have to pursue this if it makes you uncomfortable. He’s already offered to settle, so—”

Yoongi snorts. “Fuck him. I should probably be the bigger person here, but I don’t want to be.”

“You don’t have to be. It’s bullshit anyway. Only victims are asked to be the bigger person—it never seems to work the other way around. He hurt you. Twice. He deserves whatever’s coming to him.”

There’s nothing else to say—nothing else Yoongi wants to say—so he lets himself into the car and closes the door before Taehyung can say anything else. When Taehyung joins him, Yoongi asks, “Who’s in town this week?”

And it feels so normal, so strange—navigating through the airport parking lot and discussing the week ahead. Just for a second, it’s as if his life hadn’t come to a halt for months, as if he hadn’t disappeared off the face of the planet. As if he’s actually there because he has a schedule, things to do and money to make.

Then Taehyung lets out a breath, tapping a finger against the steering wheel. “Jimin. Oh, and Jungkook,” he says, like it’s an afterthought.

Yoongi frowns. “Jungkook’s here?” It’s hard to ignore the voice in the back of his head telling him he’s been replaced; Taehyung can’t afford to wait for Yoongi forever.

“Okay, so, don’t get mad at me,” Taehyung starts, and dread snakes its fingers around Yoongi’s heart. “Namjoon’s birthday is this month, so he’s coming out tomorrow with a couple of his friends. The past few months have been rough, so I just thought it would be nice if we could all get together. Like, you know, a family.”

It takes a moment for his words to make sense, echoing off each other until it feels like Yoongi imagined the whole thing. But there’s one person, one name, that keeps him focused. “Namjoon?” It comes out a little more harshly than he intended, thick and painful in his throat. “Did he put you up to this?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “Why would Namjoon plan his own birthday party?” His expression softens as he shoots a glance at Yoongi. “I haven’t heard you say his name in that tone in a long time. Did something happen?”

Yoongi looks down, picking at a thin spot in his jeans. Doesn’t Taehyung know? Didn’t Namjoon tell him?

“We haven’t really… We haven't been in contact. Not since—you know.”

Taehyung frowns. “I thought he was staying with you.”

“He was.” Yoongi hesitates, dampening his lips. “It’s just… It’s complicated.”

Taehyung doesn’t respond until he pulls into the driveway, putting the car in park with more care than necessary. His hand lingers on the gearshift, his fingers tapping out a hectic rhythm.

“Namjoon wasn’t telling me anything,” he says finally. “We talked a lot at first—about the video, getting it taken down, all of that. He told me he was staying with you, then texted me a few days later to say I should check in with you. I haven’t heard from him since. I just assumed he never left.”

The thought of that night doesn’t fill Yoongi with the rage or hopeless grief it once did. It’s a sting, sharp but manageable. The image of Namjoon’s face when he was told to leave is burned into Yoongi’s mind, and the pain of it is only eclipsed by the knowledge of what Namjoon had done.

His counselor asked him if he thought Namjoon would hurt him on purpose. If he thought Namjoon would have gotten off to the video if he recognized it for what it was.

The answer was the same for both: No. But that doesn’t stop it from hurting, and it doesn’t mean he’s ready to look Namjoon in the eyes and pretend nothing happened.

He opens his mouth to say that he kicked Namjoon out, but what comes out instead is, “He couldn’t stay forever.”

There’s something that keeps him from wanting to say more. It’s the same thing that made it so difficult to bring this up to his counselor. The fear of painting Namjoon in a bad light, of failing to describe the nuance of the situation—because there is nuance, Yoongi knows that, but maybe he won’t articulate it correctly. Maybe he’s afraid of making waves, causing the people around him to be angry at Namjoon on his behalf.

Or maybe he’s afraid someone will tell him there’s no moving past this. That the only thing he can do is cut Namjoon out of his life and move on.

He doesn’t know if he wants to see Namjoon. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to forgive. But this—it’s just between them. The more people who are involved, the worse it will feel. Because maybe neither of them did anything wrong, and outside opinions will muddy the waters. It’s a wound that needs to heal on its own—if it’s capable of healing at all.

The front door opens as Yoongi and Taehyung approach, and Jimin meets them on the porch, sliding his arms around Yoongi’s shoulders.

“Hey, baby.” Jimin drops a kiss against Yoongi’s cheek, then pulls back to comb his fingers through his hair. He hasn’t colored it in months and he expects Jimin to comment on it, but all Jimin says is, “I missed you.”

He guides Yoongi inside with a hand curved around his elbow, keeping him close, and it’s nice. Feeling wanted, feeling cared for. The little things he’d never noticed—the way Taehyung quietly follows them inside with Yoongi’s bag, placing it at the bottom of the stairs so Yoongi can take it up when he’s ready. He always brushed it off, taking it for granted as something agents are supposed to do. And maybe it is—Yoongi has never worked with anyone else—but it doesn’t matter. It’s just another thing that makes him feel seen and important.

Just like the cups of tea that had been placed on the table in anticipation of their arrival. Jungkook is already sitting there with his own mug cupped between his hands, and he offers Yoongi a broad smile as they enter the kitchen.

“Hi!” Jungkook calls, rocking slightly in his chair, eyes sparkling.

It’s been a while since Yoongi last saw him, but he’s struck again by how big Jungkook is. If it weren't for the smile and lighthearted humming, the gentle rocking and absent sounds, he would almost be intimidating. His current style is more bikerish than it used to be, all blacks and leathers, heavy silver rings, and wide wristbands at the base of fingerless gloves. His lip and eyebrow have been pierced since the last time Yoongi saw him, and the edges of tattoos peek out from beneath his long sleeves.

He looks like the quintessential porn Dom. There’s nothing more to it.

“Hey,” Yoongi says. “It’s been a while.” He doesn’t know much about Jungkook, but he knows that Jungkook isn’t the best at hiding what he’s thinking. For Jungkook to be sitting here smiling at Yoongi like nothing is wrong, then he must not know anything.

And why would he? It’s probably self-centered to think everyone talks about Yoongi and his problems when he’s not around. And maybe a few months ago, he would have felt guilty for thinking that and added it to the list of things that make him a narcissistic diva, but now it’s just… oddly comforting. No one is talking about him. The world is still turning.

Everything is okay.

But still—this is a lot. The fatigue is catching up to him, and so is the adrenaline letdown from the flight. He’s been alone for just over two months; after the airport, the flight, and the car ride… He’s overwhelmed. He just needs to be alone for a bit.

He swallows thickly. “Um—I’m going to freshen up real quick first. If that’s okay. I feel gross from the flight, and I—”

“It’s okay,” Jimin cuts in gently. He reaches across the table to pick up the mug that had been set out for Yoongi, pressing it into his hands. “At least take your tea with you. We can catch up when you’re ready.”

Yoongi pushes out a breath. “Thank you.” Maybe a couple of months ago, he would have overthought this, would have thought this was Jimin treating him like he’s fragile, but maybe this is just who Jimin is.

Maybe this is just who Yoongi is. Someone who gets worked up, overwhelmed, overstimulated, and needs a moment to unwind. And maybe part of having real friends is having people who understand that.

Yoongi takes his bag and retreats up the stairs, trying not to feel like he’s running away. He’s not—he just has to take care of himself first. There’s nothing wrong with that.

So he takes care of himself: Taking his time selecting a sheet mask from his toiletry bag, then locking himself away with a bath bomb and his shower speaker.

Baths feel different than they used to. In the weeks after what happened, he thought he’d ruined them for himself forever, his single, go-to method for relaxation just another thing he’d lost. But it helps to put them back in their place, to make himself go through the comforting motions he’d slowly eliminated as he’d spiraled: Music. Ambient lighting. Gentle fragrances and skin care.

It wraps around him like a soothing cloud, warm and familiar, the shimmering purple water like an embrace. And it would be unrealistic, unfair to himself, to think he could ever sit in a bath and not be reminded of the dark place he’d been. He’s had to work at not feeling guilty or ashamed, finding power in it instead: He was able to take this back.

He could have ended his life, but he didn’t.

He’s glad he didn’t.

Every time he slips into a bath, he’ll probably always think of how easy it would be to sink beneath the surface and never come out. But he’ll also think of how he overcame that, how every second he keeps his head above water is a victory in its own way.

Every day is a victory, every moment.

He’s still here.

When he finally emerges from the bathroom, it’s to find Jungkook sitting on the edge of the bed, chin in his hand, reading the back of a bottle of lotion with a look of intense concentration.

Yoongi blinks, looking around the room as if it could provide an answer. But Jimin and Taehyung must be downstairs still, which means it’s just him and Jungkook. For… some reason.

“Um.” Yoongi pulls his robe around himself a little more securely. “What’s up?”

Jungkook perks up, smiling as he places the lotion back on the nightstand. “I was supposed to get you for dinner.”

“Oh god,” Yoongi groans, dragging a hand through his hair as he wanders over to the bed. He unzips his duffle bag to find something to wear. “Don’t tell me Jimin and Tae cooked.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jungkook shake his head. “We ordered pizza.”

“Cool,” Yoongi offers, for lack of anything better to say. He picks out a shirt, sets it on the bed, hesitates, and then pretends to dig for another option. It’s not like he ever packs more than a few t-shirts and jeans, none better or worse than the others, but he’s not quite sure what to do.

If it was anyone else, he’d shrug off his robe and start changing right here. But this is Jungkook, and Jungkook doesn’t do porn—they’re barely even friends. Which is fine, whatever, but Jungkook is just sitting there looking at him, and a heavy awkwardness is quickly settling over them.

It’s settling over Yoongi, anyway.

Jungkook seems perfectly at ease, leaning back on his hands, soft and intimidating all at once. He angles his head back, sniffing deliberately at the air.

“Lavender?” Jungkook asks, and before Yoongi can piece together what he’s talking about, he adds, “And… Vanilla, I think.”

Yoongi’s face burns. “Oh. Yeah, that’s… I used a bath bomb.” He hesitates, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s lavender and tonka, actually.” Most people probably don’t care—the scents are similar enough—but Jungkook might actually want to know.

“Ah…” Jungkook closes his eyes and inhales again, long and deep, nodding to himself. “Okay. That makes sense.”

Yoongi’s not sure how it makes any more sense than any other fragrance, but he nods anyway. “Yeah.” He tucks his clothes under his arm. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Jungkook doesn’t seem to get the message. He angles his head, looking at Yoongi with wide, curious eyes. “Those fragrances are really calming, right? They’re comforting if you’re stressed. Are you stressed, Yoongi-hyung?”

Yoongi blinks at him, caught off guard by the honorific. He hasn’t been called that in… he doesn’t even know how long it’s been. But he vaguely remembers giving Jungkook permission once, maybe back at the adult entertainment awards a few years back when Yoongi was still a sub. It warms a cold, hollow place inside of him.

And Jungkook just… sounds so sincere. He’s looking at Yoongi like he cares, like bath bomb fragrances are a serious indication of someone’s mood instead of personal preference, and Yoongi can’t deny him.

He huffs, placing his small pile of clothes back on the bed and sitting down next to them. “Kind of,” he admits. “I have… travel anxiety, I guess. Or just—anxiety in general. So.”

Jungkook nods, looking down at his feet and shuffling his socks against the carpet. Toe socks, Yoongi notices absently. Cute.

“I don’t like traveling either,” Jungkook says. “Especially on planes. We usually go on a road trip for the awards every year.”

Yoongi smiles. “That sounds nice.”

“We flew this time, though,” Jungkook goes on. “It wasn’t bad, but… I needed time to calm down, too. So I get it.”

It’s nice to hear, but more than anything, it just makes Yoongi wonder why Jungkook came to Vegas this weekend at all. Why go through the stress of flying just to be present at a birthday gathering for someone he doesn’t even know?

Or does he?

It almost wouldn’t be a surprise if they’d somehow gotten to know each other. Namjoon had gone out of his way to meet as many people at the awards as possible…

“So,” Yoongi starts. He’s aiming for casual, and he has to fight back a cringe when he hears himself miss the mark. “You and Namjoon must be pretty good friends. For you to fly out for him, I mean,” he adds in response to Jungkook’s blank look.

“I’ve never met him,” Jungkook says. “Jimin invited me, so I came. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Yoongi looks down, twisting his fingers in his lap. He doesn’t know what possesses him to ask, but once the thought forms in his mind, he can’t talk himself out of it. Maybe it’s just because it’s Jungkook, someone literal and reserved, someone who will take the question at face value without drawing their own conclusions. “Can I ask you something?”

Jungkook sits up a little straighter, turning to face Yoongi more fully. “Of course.”

“If you trusted someone…” Yoongi hesitates, dampening his lips. “If you trusted someone and they hurt you. What would you do?”

It’s a stupid question. Yoongi almost wishes he could take the words back, because it’s not like Jungkook can create an informed response from this. It’s too big, too vague, and what happened with Namjoon is so specific and complicated that it can’t be summed up in abstract hypotheticals.

“Sorry,” Yoongi starts. “That was—”

“Did they hurt me on purpose?” Jungkook asks.

“No. But…” Yoongi sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Maybe someone has hurt you by accident before. And knowing it was an accident almost made it worse, because it made you feel like your safety wasn’t important.”

Either Jungkook takes the question more seriously than expected, or Yoongi has completely lost his attention, because he doesn’t offer an immediate response. His gaze is focused somewhere on the floor as he scratches absently at his cheek, the furrow of his brow the only indication that he might be thinking through this.

This was a bad idea. Yoongi pulls his clothes back into his lap. “Never mind. I should get changed.”

Right when Yoongi starts to stand, Jungkook says, “There are different kinds of accidents, right?” He blinks out of his trance, offering Yoongi a small smile. “If I got hurt in a car accident with a friend, and they were speeding, or texting, or doing something they knew they shouldn’t…” He trails off, nodding to himself with little bobs of his head. “That would be hard to forgive. But if they only swerved to avoid an animal—if I got hurt when they were trying to do the right thing, that’s different.”

The idea of Namjoon getting his rocks off being even remotely comparable to saving a life is so far off base it’s almost funny. And some part of Yoongi wants to let himself be distracted by this, to laugh the whole thing off and move on, because he wasn’t prepared for an answer like this. Something so simple, something so far removed from what actually happened, but managed to offer a perspective he hadn’t considered.

“If it was someone I trusted,” Jungkook goes on, “I don’t think they would have wanted to hurt me in either situation. But if they were deliberately doing something unsafe, I probably would have asked them to stop. Which means they didn’t care about my comfort or boundaries, and I don’t know if I could trust them after that. But if they were trying to avoid hurting an animal—how could I blame them if I would have done the same thing?”

There are a million responses, a million alternatives that would make sense in hindsight: They should have braked instead of swerving. They should have been more aware of their surroundings. If they’d been looking further ahead, they would have seen the animal on the road and planned accordingly. At the end of the day, if there was no dodging it, they should have prioritized the safety of themselves and other drivers and hoped that the animal got out of the way in time.

Those things are easy to see outside of the moment, when it’s a hypothetical example and not a split-second, real-life decision. Because if it was, Yoongi might have done the same: See an animal in the road, swerve to dodge it.

Click on porn, assume it’s ethical.

Maybe Jungkook is right.

Maybe the first accident, the one with Robert and the Dom, was kind of reckless—speeding down the interstate and never offering him something as basic as a seatbelt. It still wasn’t malicious, because they never wanted to crash, but he still paid the price for their carelessness.

What he experienced with Namjoon is different, but Yoongi can’t think of a comparison that fits. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe the only thing that matters is that the difference is there, that all accidents aren’t created equal, and malicious intent isn’t the only thing worth considering.

“Does that help, Yoongi-hyung?” Jungkook asks, soft and hesitant.

Yoongi pushes out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it does. Thank you.”

Jungkook beams, an infectious smile that Yoongi can’t help but return.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Jungkook says, as if he’d stayed just for this. Maybe he did. Maybe he’s like Jimin—empathetic, oddly perceptive, with a quiet, persistent care that they offer so freely and naturally that it’s easy to overlook.

They’re good for each other. That kind of care and attention probably translates well into a Dom/sub relationship, into knowing and understanding someone so completely.

And Yoongi misses it. That bond with someone.

For the first time in months, he gives himself a moment to miss Namjoon.

It’s weird enough being here without a schedule of his own, but it’s weirder knowing Jimin doesn’t have any shoots this weekend either. Taehyung hanging around without rushing out the door at the earliest possible opportunity is even weirder still.

No one is hurrying through dinner to get as many hours of beauty sleep as possible, or fighting over bathrooms. They just sit there talking, lingering at the table long after the pizza is gone, and it’s weird.

But it’s also kind of nice.

Yoongi ends up migrating to the living room first, making himself small against the armrest of the tiny couch. He almost wants to go to bed just for a break from the constant interaction, but he doesn’t want to be the first one to leave. Not when he already isolated himself within minutes of arriving at the house.

It’s just that he can’t be here without thinking about Namjoon. Or at least without being hyperaware of Namjoon’s absence in his life.

It feels like a lifetime ago that Yoongi was angry and territorial, hating the idea of having to share a living space with Namjoon. Hating how Namjoon walked around like he owned the place, mistaking natural confidence and awkward babbling for an unbearable ego. Mistaking his attempts at kindness—his offers to help Yoongi with everything from carrying luggage to making midnight snacks—as competition, showing off as a more capable Dom.

But all of that was just—Namjoon.

He wasn’t trying to dominate anyone. He wasn’t living in a fantasy like Yoongi was, letting his porn persona define him, letting his uneducated beliefs about BDSM influence his view of others.

And fuck it—Yoongi misses him. He misses him, and it hurts. The hole Namjoon left in his heart is just another piece of him that’s missing, broken, never to be the same again. His fingers are itching to write, to spill all of this onto a page of his notebook and make sense of it: How much he hates Namjoon, how much he loves him. How he never wants to see him again and how he never wants to let him go. How much he wants to scream at Namjoon for ruining this, for putting Yoongi in this position in the first place, for—

The smooth, cool plastic of a controller lands in Yoongi’s hands, and Yoongi blinks to find Jimin and Jungkook setting up a console. Taehyung drops down next to him on the couch, fingers curled loosely around a controller of his own.

“Mario Kart,” he says by way of explanation.

“Oh.” Yoongi places the controller aside, wiping his palms on his jeans. “Actually, I’m just going to go to bed. I—”

Taehyung leans over, placing a cool finger over Yoongi’s lips. “After Mario Kart,” he says. He sounds serious, but Yoongi can never quite tell when he’s actually serious or just pretending for comedic effect. He doesn’t quite feel like finding out.

He sighs, scooping the controller back up. “One race.”

Jimin and Jungkook end up settling on the floor in front of the couch, which puts them in prime kicking range when Yoongi starts getting competitive three races in. He wins their impromptu tournament with the help of a blue shell and a foot on the back of Jimin’s head, and Jimin’s whines of protest are almost lost under Jungkook’s howling laughter.

“Interference!” Jimin screeches. He points accusingly at Jungkook and Taehyung. “And you—! You guys should be mad, too!”

They probably should be. Jungkook was in second place before his laughter sent him sailing off the side of the course and into the water, while Taehyung ran straight into the blue shell’s blast, letting Yoongi go from last place to victory in a matter of seconds.

“What are you going to do about it?” Jimin asks, putting his chin on Taehyung’s knee and pouting up at him.

Taehyung glances at Yoongi, an ominous smirk pulling at his lips. “Penalty game. Now you have to play Mario Party.”

Yoongi huffs, flopping back against the couch and folding his arms over his chest. “You can’t make me do anything.”

It’s protesting just for the sake of it. He’s stayed up long enough now that he’s gotten a second wind, the lingering fatigue of waking up at four in the morning slipping away into something giddy and hazy. This is fun, a good distraction. More importantly, it gives him an excuse to stay up a little longer, because staying up late to postpone the inevitable doesn’t feel as pathetic when he’s not alone.

The sooner he goes to bed, the sooner it will be morning, and the sooner he will see Namjoon.

That doesn’t mean he’s going down without a fight.

“I can and I will,” Jimin insists as Jungkook switches out the games.

“You’re just going to be sitting there staring at the screen. I’ll never take my turn—you’ll get bored eventually.”

“Try me,” Jimin says. “I always get what I want.”

Gentle fingers tuck his hair behind his ear, and Yoongi turns to see Taehyung looking at him carefully. He’s probably made this awkward by pretending to resist. Taehyung knows the truth of it, even if Jimin still doesn’t. And it’s just a game, sure—Yoongi isn’t going to get upset by his friends forcing fun on him. He needs a push sometimes. But he can see the hint of uncertainty in Taehyung’s eyes, the discomfort that says he’s made the connection and isn’t quite sure how to proceed.

And it’s… pretty fucking awful.

This will always haunt him, won’t it? Him and everyone around him. Someone will be reminded at the most innocuous times, shifting the whole mood, ruining things that never had to be ruined.

Right as Yoongi is about to take it back, to express his clear consent to play a video game—Jesus fucking Christ—Taehyung says, “I assume you’d get up and walk away if you really didn’t want to. You just want to hear us beg.” The sparkle is back in his eyes, the teasing smile back in place, and maybe nothing is ruined after all.

Yoongi lets out a relieved breath, sagging against the couch. He’s grateful all over again for having friends who get it, who don’t make things weird, who find ways to pick up and carry on even when the odd little reminder pops up every now and then.

“So?” Yoongi prompts. “If you’ve figured it out, why haven’t you started begging?”

And it’s normal again, Jimin and Taehyung begging dramatically as Jungkook starts the game, the music echoing cheerfully through the house. Yoongi relents sooner than he ordinarily would have, under the condition that he gets to choose his character first.

They only make it about halfway through before they run out of steam, the pauses between each of their turns getting longer and longer until—at some point—they stop playing entirely.

Yoongi wakes up with a crick in his neck, his head tilted straight back against the couch cushion, mouth uncomfortably dry as he blinks blearily up at the ceiling. It’s still dark outside, only the cool glow from the TV illuminating the room, the incessant rolling of the video game dice chiming in the silence.

He sits up slowly, grimacing as his neck and spine pop along the way. Jimin and Jungkook are curled around each other on the floor like a pair of cats, and Taehyung has shifted onto his side, his head pillowed on the armrest. Yoongi feels around for the remote and a dark, comfortable silence falls over them when he powers off the TV.

He could probably find his way to the stairs without waking anyone, but there’s no point. He moves onto his side, claiming the other armrest and angling his legs around Taehyung’s, and closes his eyes.

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

They wake up too early, the sun still rising and casting the room in soft blues and purples. It feels natural for Yoongi to start digging through the cabinets as Jimin starts a pot of coffee, looking for anything that might make a decent breakfast. He finds eggs and bacon in the fridge—both of which Taehyung swears are new—and that will have to be good enough.

When they settle around the table, groggy and sore, there’s a nostalgic sense of solidarity—the feeling of staying up too late as a kid at a sleepover, aching from the lack of sleep, all while exchanging secret smiles at the memories of the night before. It’s warm and slow, peacefully waking up as they eat their breakfast, and the room grows brighter and brighter.

Only for the bubble to burst when Taehyung pushes back his sleeve to check his watch. “I’ll have to leave for the airport soon,” he says, and there’s at least some comfort in the fact that he doesn’t sound too thrilled about it. “Gotta pick up Namjoon and his friends.”

“What friends?” Jimin asks. “Did he say?”

As Taehyung shrugs, Yoongi says, “Probably Jin and Hoseok. I’ve met them before—they’re nice.”

Not that they’ll have much of a reason to be nice to Yoongi anymore. They were already suspicious of him the last time they all saw each other, all but accusing Yoongi of using Namjoon. What will they think of him now?

It’s too much to hope that Namjoon didn’t tell them anything. Yoongi knows he hurt Namjoon—of course the first thing Namjoon would do is turn to his friends for support. Best case scenario, this is going to be really fucking awkward.

Yoongi doesn’t want to imagine the worst.

“Do they know I’m going to be here?” he asks.

“Well, it’s a surprise,” Taehyung says. “I told him to bring a couple of friends and celebrate his birthday in Vegas, and they could all stay here. I said no one had any shoots this weekend, which is true, in my defense.”

Yoongi sighs, rubbing the heel of his hand over his aching eyes. “Christ…”

“I thought you and Namjoon were in love—” Jungkook is cut off by a sharp movement that could only be Jimin kicking him under the table. “But I thought—?”

“Not now,” Jimin hisses, and Yoongi would die of shame if Jungkook didn’t look so innocently confused. It’s almost funny—the thought of Jimin overselling his and Namjoon’s relationship, probably thinking it was unlikely for Jungkook to ever be in the same room as them and find out the truth.

Just to change the subject, Yoongi takes a drink of his coffee and nods toward Jungkook’s arm. “New tattoos?” Jungkook had shed some of his layers during the night, leaving him in a sleeveless top that put his ink on full display.

“Oh! Yeah.” Jungkook grins, leaning forward and holding out his arms.

Jimin rolls his eyes fondly, resting his cheek on his fist. “Here we go.”

“So, last time I saw you, I just had these,” Jungkook starts, tracing his fingers over the designs on his bicep. “Well… Not that one, actually”—he covers up a new-looking skull—“but these,” he explains, as if the details really matter. And maybe they do to him; the fact that he even remembers the exact tattoos he had when he and Yoongi last met is strange and endearing in its own right.

So Yoongi listens as Jungkook takes him on a guided tour of his tattoos, smiling as Jungkook recounts the surprising meaning behind a design that looks like little more than a drunken scribble.

Jungkook takes him all the way down his right arm, snapping off bracelets and laying them on the table so Yoongi can get the full picture. He makes it down to the designs on the tops of his fingers before Taehyung has to leave.

He gets up quietly, dropping a kiss on top of Yoongi’s head and ruffling Jimin and Jungkook’s hair. “Be back soon,” he murmurs under Jungkook’s ongoing commentary. “Clean this place up a bit, okay?”

There isn’t much to clean aside from getting rid of the empty pizza boxes and straightening up the video game controllers, but Yoongi rolls his eyes as if it’s a burden anyway.

As Taehyung heads to the door, Jungkook swaps to his other arm without missing a beat. “And these—”

“Baby,” Jimin interjects kindly, laying his hand over Jungkook’s, “I don’t think Yoongi—”

Yoongi shakes his head. “It’s okay. I want to see.” It’s the truth, but he means it even more when he sees the relief in Jimin’s eyes, the unbridled excitement brightening Jungkook’s face.

Jungkook takes him through the designs on his other arm, a mix of detailed stories and “I just thought this one would be cool,” until he makes it down to his wrist. He slides off a couple of bracelets, then hesitates with his fingers hovering above a thick leather strap, held in place by a silver O-ring.

“Um—well, you get the idea,” he says, shifting the bracelet so Yoongi can more or less see the designs around it. Jungkook shoots a shy glance at Jimin, who offers him a reassuring smile and a pat on the shoulder, and it clicks.

It may be a bracelet, but it’s very much a collar in design. The O-ring reminds him of the subtle detail on Hoseok’s day collar, and that…

That’s what this is.

It’s a day collar, one that Jungkook isn’t allowed—or isn’t willing—to take off.

Because he’s a submissive.

Which means Jimin is…

“Wait, what the fuck?” Yoongi blurts, and Jungkook stiffens like a startled rabbit. “Sorry. It’s not you, it’s just…”

It occurs to him all at once that he might not be supposed to know this. Maybe no one is supposed to know. Jimin has never said anything about it, and Jungkook seems so shy—Yoongi doesn’t want to embarrass him.

Yoongi has always felt so outside the BDSM community, an imposter, someone who exploits a lifestyle that never belonged to him. And suddenly it feels like he knows something, that he’s been looped into a secret world—one that he had been a breath away from fucking up.

“Nothing,” he says, grasping for an excuse. His gaze lands on a realistic rendering of an eye on Jungkook’s arm, and fuck it—that’ll do. “That tattoo looks real. It caught me off guard.”

Jungkook seems pleased with the response, relaxing back into a smile. “It’s great, isn’t it?” He starts talking about the artist, and Yoongi glances at Jimin cautiously.

He’s staring right back at Yoongi, but he doesn’t look mad. His head is cocked to the side, an eyebrow subtly lifted, a smile pulling at his lips that’s equally teasing and full of humor—like he’s fighting to keep himself from laughing.

Yoongi lets it go as they straighten up the kitchen and the living room, fluffing as much life as they can back into the worn-down couch cushions. When Jungkook heads to the bathroom to freshen up, Jimin lets out a dramatic sigh.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for a cigarette.” He makes a show of patting down his pants—which don’t even appear to have pockets—before turning to Yoongi with an exaggerated pout. “Yoongi. Darling. Light of my life…”

It’s an invitation if Yoongi’s ever heard one.

“Fine,” he sighs, feeling his pocket for the outline of his pack. “But you owe me.”

Yoongi lets Jimin lead him out the back door with their arms linked, and he’s not quite sure what he’s expecting. Whatever he had in mind, Jimin closing the door behind them, laying his hands on Yoongi’s shoulders, and asking solemnly, “How are you doing? Really,” would have been his last guess.

Yoongi hesitates, his hand halfway tucked in his pocket, frozen on the way to his cigarettes. “What do you mean?”

He thought he’d been doing okay. This morning was fine, last night was fine—except for the one little hiccup that Jimin might not have even noticed. And they’ve already talked about the video being posted; this would be a weird time to bring it up again.

“Namjoon,” Jimin explains. “You were being weird. Weirder than usual, I mean. Is something going on?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, and Jimin’s expression softens. He still doesn’t know how much he wants to tell, or if he wants to talk about what happened at all. Turning Jimin against Namjoon minutes before he arrives for what’s likely going to be an awkward, underwhelming surprise party seems like a terrible idea.

But he’s also tired of lying to the people who care about him.

“I mean, something did happen,” Yoongi says. “But I don’t know if I should talk about it.”

“Should?” Jimin repeats, arching an eyebrow. “You can talk about whatever you want. If he hurt you and told you not to talk about it, I’m going to kick his ass—”

“Relax,” Yoongi interjects. He shouldn’t be smiling, but the thought of Jimin taking down Namjoon in a tiny, feral rage is oddly heartwarming. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just… It’s complicated. It’s really, really complicated.”

Jimin searches his eyes, frowning. “Yoongi. Did he hurt you?”

“Not intentionally.”

“Yoongi—”

“Please.” Yoongi is surprised to feel his eyes burning, something painful and anxious quivering in his chest. “I know you want to help me. I know you care about me. But this—this is something I need to work out for myself. I think I’ll feel worse if anyone else knows.”

Jimin sighs, his shoulders slumping. “But you’re sure he didn’t do anything on purpose?”

“You know Namjoon.” Yoongi pulls out his pack, shaking a cigarette loose and plucking it free with his lips. “It was a misunderstanding. That’s all.”

Jimin nods, slow and resigned. “Okay.”

“You didn’t really drag me out here to ask me that, did you?”

“Of course not.” Jimin smiles in a way that only he’s capable of, one that seems to say, ‘I care about you and there’s nothing you can do about it’. Almost teasing, but softened by the gentle, knowing glimmer in his eyes. And maybe Yoongi has never taken the time to appreciate the way Jimin always seems to know when to push and when to give him space. He’s lucky to have Jimin in his life. He really, truly is.

“We’re here because you so graciously offered to share your cigarettes,” Jimin says, batting his lashes, and Yoongi waves him away.

“I didn’t offer,” he points out, but he passes Jimin a cigarette all the same, grateful for the change of subject. Jimin’s lips curve into a smile around the filter as he lights up, lifting his free hand to shield the little flame from the breeze. “I thought you were going to tell me about your secret life as a Dom.”

Jimin laughs around a puff of smoke. “It’s not exactly a secret.”

Yoongi takes a moment to think about it, trying to picture Jimin in the same way he sees Namjoon: Strong and imposing, protective and dangerous. And Jimin—well. He certainly pays attention enough to be a Dom, but it’s like Yoongi had once told Namjoon: Jimin likes attention. He seems to like being doted on and cared for, the one who’s focused on in scenes, immobilized to the point that he can’t do anything aside from take what he’s given.

Beyond that, he seems to really, really like being fucked.

“Well…” Yoongi scuffs his shoe against the porch. “I didn’t know. I didn’t even think you liked topping.”

Jimin gives him a look somewhere between pity and amusement. “I don’t.” And Yoongi must look as confused as he feels, because Jimin adds, “Doms don’t have to top, you know. They can do whatever they want—that’s the whole point.”

“Is that why you don’t take Dom roles?” Yoongi asks. Maybe there’s no demand for Doms that bottom. It would be hard to imagine because there’s a demand for almost anything, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.

Jimin shakes his head, inhaling deeply. He pushes out a plume of smoke through his nose and says, “That has nothing to do with it. It’s just between me and Kookie, really.”

There’s still so much Yoongi doesn’t know. Jimin and Jungkook’s dynamic seems so different from Jin and Hoseok’s—so different from what he had with Namjoon. And maybe no two relationships ever look the same. It’s give-and-take, defining personal boundaries and desires, and building something both parties enjoy.

“It’s funny,” Jimin goes on, “I feel more vulnerable as a Dom than I do as a sub, in a way. I can trust myself as a sub to end a scene if it goes too far, but I don’t know if other subs will do the same. I don’t know if they’ll compromise their boundaries for the sake of the scene, and that scares me. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Yoongi taps the ashes from his cigarette and watches them float away, carried out into the yard. He wonders if that’s a bad thing. If cigarette ash is harmful to the environment. He shakes the thought from his head to keep himself from screaming. “I guess I’m the opposite. It’s easier to trust myself to hold back and stay present as a Dom than it is to submit to someone I don’t know. I don’t know if… I don’t know if I can ever do that again.”

Yoongi can feel Jimin’s eyes on him, quiet and lingering. “You don’t have to, you know,” Jimin says. “It’s okay to have something that’s just yours, something you don’t share with the world. I think everyone should have that, honestly. It’s the only way I can stay sane.”

It’s still so weirdly difficult to wrap his mind around. Yoongi can understand not fully trusting scene partners, but… “You really don’t want to be a Dom in porn at all? Even if you could do a scene with someone you trusted?”

That has to be the ultimate goal. To get paid to do what you love most. Yoongi can’t imagine intentionally aiming for anything less. Why wouldn’t someone want to get paid for doing the thing that brings them the most pleasure?

“Would you want to sub for me?” Jimin asks in lieu of answering. “A scene with just us—only I’m Domming. Would you really want that?”

The answer comes to him immediately, but Yoongi still makes himself think about it. The panic that grips him is irrational; he can trust Jimin with his life, and there are few people in this world he trusts more. Maybe there’s no one else. Jimin wouldn’t hurt him. Jimin would pay attention to him, take care of him, make sure he feels safe during and after the scene.

And Yoongi doesn’t want it at all.

He shakes his head sharply, taking a drag that catches in his throat. “I don’t—no.”

It’s really over, isn’t it?

How can he go back to porn, back to subbing, if he can’t even imagine doing a scene with the person he trusts most? Domming, and especially topping—it’s not his thing, but it was okay because it was temporary. Something to do, something to keep himself relevant while he tried to get back to doing what he loved.

For the past few months, he’s been wondering how he could ever trust a stranger again. He never bothered to imagine what it would be like subbing on camera for a friend. The realization that he doesn’t fucking want to rips a hole inside of him, pressing at the wound that hasn’t quite healed—will never heal.

Jimin’s hand lands softly on his shoulder, squeezing. “It’s okay. That’s the point. I trust you, but I don’t want to Dom for you either.” He pauses, and Yoongi can feel his smile when he adds, “No offense.”

Yoongi sniffs, pushing out a tight laugh.

“For me,” Jimin goes on, “the pleasure of Domming comes from the trust in my partner. I love our bond, and the connection I feel with him during a scene is almost… fucking spiritual or something. It won’t be the same with someone else, and I don’t want it to be. I’m letting my guard down and baring my soul for him alone. That doesn’t belong on camera.”

That’s what Yoongi had with Namjoon. A connection so strong it felt spiritual, a trust that ran so deep that it was beautiful and terrifying. And it wasn’t just about subbing, because Yoongi had thought from the beginning that subbing for Namjoon was different from anything he’d ever experienced.

Namjoon was different.

Even if Yoongi could sub on camera again, it would only pale in comparison to what he lost.

It would be such a poor substitute that Yoongi doesn’t know if he could enjoy it at all. He can’t look at anyone else and even pretend to respect them, revere them, worship them the way he did with Namjoon. It would feel like sacrilege to place another Dom above him, to fall on his knees in complete submission before anyone else.

And that’s what he misses, what he craves. Not subbing as a physical outlet, something that amounts to little more than a sex position with a stranger.

He misses his Dominant. He misses loving his Dominant. And he misses being loved in return—because he knows he was, whether they were in a relationship or not. A connection like theirs can’t exist without some kind of love between them.

“You’re not a failure if you never sub on camera again,” Jimin says, as if picking Yoongi’s fear from his heart. “I mean, it’s porn, but it’s still just a job. It’s okay if you aren’t getting paid to do your favorite thing—if you’re doing something you’re comfortable with, then you’re better off than most people.”

It’s so simple, so obvious, but it feels like… A revelation. An awakening. Like missing the last step on a flight of stairs and being jolted out of a daydream. Yoongi blinks rapidly, fighting back the burn in his eyes. All he can do is nod, because if he opens his mouth, he thinks he might cry.

Jimin gives him a look. “I know you prefer bottoming, but what about Domming? Do you hate it?”

Yoongi shakes his head.

“You’re good at it. I meant it all those times I said you were my favorite Dom.” Jimin turns to face him more fully, smiling softly. “You can choose to do anything you want. It’s okay if you’re not being your most authentic self on camera, if you’re playing a part and keeping your real interests to yourself. You’re an actor. I mean, shit, you’re fucking Tom Cruise—”

Yoongi snorts.

“Shut up, Tom Cruise is the best. The point is that, as an actor, you can pick the roles that appeal to you most, ones that resonate with you and keep your interest, but at the end of the day, you’re not a fighter pilot or a secret agent or whatever.”

Yoongi huffs, smiling to himself as he inhales another hot lungful of smoke. Things were different when he started experimenting with niche content. It was about money, but it did turn into a pursuit of personal pleasure, too. BDSM wasn’t an option in the real world. His boyfriend at the time wouldn’t even handcuff him, and Yoongi thought that was the end of it. He could only experience the pleasure of subbing through his work, through pushing the boundaries and being vulnerable for Dom after strange Dom, but…

It doesn’t have to be that way anymore. It hasn’t been that way in a long time.

“You’d be cute bottoming as a Dom,” Jimin says. “Maybe you should think about it.”

Cute isn’t exactly what he’s going for, but still—Yoongi tries to imagine it. For a long time, bottoming was the thing that scared him the most, and between subbing and bottoming, it was the hardest to overcome. But he did overcome it. Logically, he knows the thing that hurt him most was being powerless, restrained, and unable to end the scene.

Even if he can’t imagine subbing on camera again, he can almost imagine this.

A scene on his terms, with him in control, knowing how to watch and take care of the sub he’s with while still getting what he likes out of the scene sexually. It’s… an idea.

Whether it’s a good idea or not, Yoongi isn’t sure. But it’s certainly an idea.

But right now, more than anything, he just… wants Namjoon back. Their connection, their trust. He wants to look at him, think about him, without feeling like he’s being ripped in half.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever reach that point. Even if he could, it’s possible that Namjoon might not want him anymore.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway makes Yoongi’s blood run cold. He’s never wanted to see Namjoon less.

He’s never wanted to see Namjoon more.

For better or worse, he no longer has a choice.

Chapter Text

Namjoon's hair isn't silver anymore. 

It's the first thing Yoongi notices as Namjoon follows Taehyung through the front door, flanked by Jin and Hoseok. A stark line of black roots runs along his part, the silver itself already faded to a pale yellow-blonde. It's easier for Yoongi to focus on how Namjoon looks a little thinner, a little less confident, than it is to acknowledge the anxious buzzing in his chest, the surge of pain-anger-longing that shoots through him like an arrow. 

He's not ready for this. 

Namjoon freezes in the entry, eyes wide and stricken, meeting Yoongi's gaze for the briefest instant before darting away. "What's going on?" Namjoon asks, something small and unfamiliar in his tone. 

"Surprise?" Taehyung offers. "I guess I didn't think this through. I mean, like—maybe we should have turned out the lights, everyone hopping out, maybe some decorations—"

"We have a cake," Jimin interjects, grinning. "That's all that matters, right?" 

The silence that follows is heavy and awkward. Namjoon is staring at the floor as if he wants to disappear through it, and Taehyung's smile is rapidly fading into a look that says he's finally starting to realize that this may not have been the best idea. 

"So." Jin steps forward, laying a hand on Namjoon's shoulder, his eyes boring into Taehyung's. "Does this mean you're not ending Namjoon's contract?" 

"What?" Taehyung jerks back, stunned. "No—what? I told you this was a birthday thing, didn’t I? I know I told you." 

Namjoon nods, sucking in a breath. "Yeah, but I thought—I don't know—it'd be unprofessional to do it over text, so—"

Taehyung's expression softens. "Namjoon. No. I have no reason to end your contract, and even if I did, do you really think I would be that mean?" 

Namjoon opens his mouth to respond, hesitates, and then seems to collapse in on himself, his shoulders quivering as his breath hitches. 

Jungkook's eyes are big and shiny like he's about to cry by association, and Jimin takes his hand, whispering, "This was not how this was supposed to go, oh my god," as Taehyung swoops in to loop an arm around Namjoon's other shoulder. 

"Clearly we need to talk," he says. And Yoongi can only stand there, looking hopelessly between Jin and Hoseok. Any second now, they'll realize this was Yoongi's fault and turn on him. They have to know that Yoongi was angry enough, cruel enough, to give Namjoon every reason to believe Taehyung would lure him out to Vegas under false pretenses to end his contract in the most humiliating way possible. 

God. Whether they're angry at Yoongi or not, he kind of hates himself enough for all three of them combined. 

But when Hoseok meets his eyes, he only offers Yoongi a shrug and a helpless smile—then seems to think better of it and closes the distance between them. Yoongi braces himself for a slap, a hug, or anything in between, but Hoseok keeps his hands obediently to himself, folded in front of him. 

"Hi," he says quietly, as Taehyung and Jin herd Namjoon over to the couch. "I know your schedule has been packed lately. We kept telling him to call you anyway, but he didn't want to bother you. But, just—don't worry about this, okay? He has highs and lows, you know?" 

No. Yoongi doesn't know. He doesn't know any of the mental health struggles Namjoon might have, because he was never decent enough to ask—all of Namjoon's hints about counseling, needing to be in control, his childhood. 

What Yoongi knows is that none of that is what's bothering him now. 

"Why would he think that?" Yoongi asks. "His contract—"

"He hasn't been up to doing any shoots lately." Hoseok shrugs. "We told him it wasn't a big deal. He's always talked about how flexible this is. Ending his contract after taking a break for a few months wouldn't make sense." 

Namjoon didn't tell them. 

His fears were entirely justified, and he didn't even have anyone to talk to. Because even at his lowest, he was still protecting Yoongi, lying about him to his friends, all to keep him from looking bad. Namjoon has to know how protective they are of him—they probably would have told Namjoon to cut Yoongi out of his life entirely.

It hurts, but it's hard not to blame himself. It's hard to believe that he's not responsible for Namjoon's thoughts, even though he couldn't have known what conclusions Namjoon might have drawn during the months he'd spent alone. 

"I take breaks all the time," Jimin says as he joins them, arms looped around Jungkook's elbow. "Taehyung doesn't care. I wish he'd said something—I would have told him." 

It's subtle, but Hoseok never speaks to them directly as Yoongi awkwardly makes the introductions, lowering his head in acknowledgment without offering a single word. He must have been granted blanket permission to speak to Yoongi, which is… nice. They must not think too poorly of him if Yoongi is on the list of people Hoseok can interact with. 

It's a reassurance Yoongi didn't realize he needed. Namjoon's friends don't hate him, so maybe that means Namjoon doesn't hate him either. 

He lets his gaze drift toward the couch. Taehyung is crouched between Namjoon's knees, looking up into his eyes and speaking softly. Jin is sitting beside him, smiling softly as Namjoon lets out a wet, half-hearted laugh. It's not a real one—not the kind of laugh that lights up his face and sparkles in his eyes, but at least it's something.

Jin passes him a tissue so he can dab at the tear tracks on his cheeks, pressing it against dampened lashes. And it hurts to see him this way, broken down and vulnerable, all while being the only person who knows the real reason why. 

"Don't worry," Hoseok tells him, and Yoongi's face warms as he jerks his eyes forward. "Talking this out in person will help him. I'm sure he'll be feeling better by tonight." 

It's a nice thought, but when Taehyung rounds them up for dinner a few hours later, Namjoon doesn't look like he's feeling any better at all. Not that Yoongi would have expected him to. 

Still, he's doing a decent job at pretending. He laughs and smiles when it makes sense, offering stilted replies to conversations, but Yoongi can see it in the way he walks with his shoulders curled in, watching the ground. The way he keeps to himself, only speaking when spoken to. 

The way he hasn't looked at Yoongi since he arrived. 

It wasn't so bad when they were still at the house and could exist in their own bubbles. But now they're here, huddled around a table in the middle of a crowded dining room—just the seven of them. Taehyung had made reservations for a weirdly luxurious hot pot dining experience, which had Yoongi feeling underdressed from the moment he walked in the door. Everything is black and gold, dark and moody; the dull roar of conversation pushes in on them from all sides, and even if Namjoon wasn't here, Yoongi would already be struggling not to crawl out of his own skin. 

As it is, he's not quite sure he can even eat. 

Everything here looks too nice for someone like Yoongi: the fancy plates with every garnish arranged to perfection; the meat sample tray that came in the form of a tiered bronze cow statue standing over a base of dry ice, which spreads across the tabletop in a billowing wave; the bowl of fried rice which shouldn't be too intimidating to eat, but there are large flecks of gold leaf on the top, and Yoongi doesn't know if he would look stupid for trying to eat it or unsophisticated for eating around it. 

When something that seems to be a robotic waiter goes rolling by, Yoongi decides that's enough. 

"Be right back," he murmurs to Jimin, who catches his hand under the table. 

"But you'll miss the dancing noodle…" It's almost funny because Jimin makes it sound like this is an utter tragedy, and Yoongi wants to escape more than ever.

Whether the dancing noodle is some asshole in a costume or something more refined, Yoongi is sure he wants no part of it. "I think I'll live." 

The restaurant is tucked away inside a hotel, so escaping for some fresh air and a smoke wouldn't be as easy as Yoongi would like. He settles with making his way to the bathroom instead—after walking with feigned confidence in the wrong direction until he finally has to get a waiter to point him the right way. 

He glances at their table as he passes it from the other side of the room—just to orient himself so he won't get lost again—and it's only a coincidence that his eyes land on Namjoon. 

His heart stops, his skin flushing hot. Namjoon is staring right back at him, but he jerks his head sharply to the side when realizes he's been noticed. 

Yoongi doesn't have time to think about it. He crashes into something and apologizes on impulse, only to realize it was one of the robot servers. He ducks his head and makes a beeline to the bathroom, trying to resist the urge to bury himself under the building. Even more importantly, hoping that Namjoon wasn't watching. 

Some part of him tries to play at being stupid, asking himself why it matters—it's not like Namjoon matters. But Yoongi can't lie to himself anymore. 

He doesn't want Namjoon to hate him. He doesn't want Namjoon to think less of him. He still wants Namjoon to look at him and see someone worthwhile. 

But it's not even like apologizing to a robot is the most embarrassing thing he's done in front of Namjoon. And Namjoon always seemed to like him well enough anyway. 

Liked. Past tense. Yoongi doesn't know where they stand anymore. He's a different person than he was a few months ago, and Namjoon probably is, too. In the months since they last saw each other, Yoongi has realized that he doesn't need Namjoon like he thought he did. He doesn't need him at all. 

And it was only within the past twenty-four hours that he realized he wants Namjoon anyway. 

What if Namjoon came to the opposite conclusion? He never needed Yoongi, but what if he doesn't even want him anymore? It's not like Yoongi ever did anything but cause him trouble, burdening him in ways he never needed to be burdened. 

Yoongi locks himself in a stall, dragging trembling hands through his hair. He needs to put this all on paper, get it out of his system, and it hits him all at once that his notebook isn't here. He only has himself and his nerves, his heart racing so fast in his chest that it feels like it's about to give out. 

Maybe it will. After all the effort he put into getting better, into fighting for himself, he's just going to have a heart attack alone in a bathroom stall after making a second of eye contact with Namjoon. 

The door to the bathroom creaks open and Yoongi goes still, his heart leaping into his throat. Would Namjoon still come for him? After everything that's happened, everything Yoongi said—would he still notice when Yoongi is alone and hurting and come to save him? 

But no one calls his name. There's only the thud of shoes across the tile and the sound of someone unzipping at a urinal, and shame seeps into Yoongi's veins. 

No one's coming. He's stupid for even thinking that they would. 

He sucks in a breath, squeezing his eyes closed. He has to stop this. He's not fucking stupid, and he doesn't need Namjoon to come and rescue him. 

He just needs a moment. Because seeing Namjoon for the first time in months is hard, resurfacing pain and longing and everything in between. It hurts to see the impact this has had on Namjoon—the physical effects of the guilt and fear that have been eating away at him all this time. 

And Yoongi wants to blame himself for it, to hate himself, because something as simple as responding to one text message could have spared Namjoon so much pain. 

But he needed space. And that's okay. 

So he takes the time he needs, focusing on his breathing and steering his thoughts away from all the questions he can't answer. Worrying about them won't change anything. Whether Namjoon still cares for him or not, it doesn't change what Yoongi has accomplished for himself, doesn't erase all the progress he's made. The more he heals, the more doors he'll open for himself. What he had with Namjoon was wonderful and necessary, but maybe it's run its course. Maybe there's something better waiting for him because of it. 

He stops himself mid-thought, his heart sinking. Is this even productive or healthy at all? Is it wrong to tell himself that Namjoon was no more than a stepping stone on his path to recovery when, in reality, he was so much more? He is so much more. He always will be. 

Namjoon is human. Someone with his own thoughts and fears, needs and desires. Reducing him to a therapy tool was probably where this all went wrong in the first place. Yoongi couldn't allow him the space to make mistakes, to be imperfect—he was music. A sheet mask. A fucking bath bomb. An object that is meant to bring comfort and nothing more. A foul-smelling bath bomb is defective and should be returned for a replacement. And maybe that's the answer to his counselor's question. 

Why did Namjoon need to be perfect? Because Yoongi was using him, whether he meant to or not. He cared, he can't pretend he didn't, but he rejected Namjoon's attempts at friendship until he realized he could benefit from it. 

That thought gives Yoongi the energy to straighten up and leave the stall, splash water on his face, and get his hair back in order. He wants to fix this. He wants another chance. Maybe he doesn't deserve one, but Namjoon at least deserves to know what Yoongi really thinks of him, and how sorry Yoongi is for blowing this. 

As he walks back to the table, he notices the way Namjoon keeps tilting his head toward the bathrooms. When their eyes meet, Yoongi offers him a smile and a little wave—only for Namjoon to jerk his gaze away, caught, then slowly lift his head again for another look, soft and questioning. 

Yoongi lifts his hand in another little half-wave, just in case Namjoon doesn't quite believe it was aimed at him in the first place. Namjoon's eyes widen, and he looks over one shoulder, then the other, as if there could ever be anyone else Yoongi would want to get the attention of in public. And then, finally, he meets Yoongi's eyes once more and offers the tiniest wave in return—barely lifting his hand from the table in a gesture that could be explained or overlooked if needed—but it's enough. Namjoon is at least willing to acknowledge him. 

And when he sits back down, everything feels different, lighter. Jungkook is holding a piece of gold leaf between his chopsticks, sniffing it, having been apparently chosen as the one to see if it's edible. 

"They wouldn't put it in food if it was dangerous," Jin reasons, hands folded on the table, even as his eyes sparkle eagerly. 

"Right," Taehyung adds, nodding. "It'd be a liability. So if you choke or something, at least we'll have a lawsuit." 

Jungkook seems unaffected by the discussion going on around him. Once the gold petal passes his inspection, he pops it into his mouth, much to Hoseok's delight. 

His laughter is infectious, the others smiling and cheering as if Jungkook pulled off an impossible feat. Even Namjoon's lips twitch in amusement, and Yoongi can't help but notice that his rice bowl is already empty—gold and all. Of course he knew. He's too smart for all of them, probably, but he'd never ruin their fun. 

"Well?" Jimin presses. "What did it taste like?" 

Jungkook shrugs, washing it down with a drink of soju. "Nothing. Maybe paper? Very, very thin paper."

Yoongi snorts and picks up his chopsticks, scooping up a bite of rice and snagging a piece of gold leaf. "How much more are we being charged for the privilege of eating thin, tasteless paper, I wonder?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Namjoon's shoulders hitch in a quiet laugh. When he turns his head, Namjoon is smiling at him—hesitant and barely there, but smiling all the same. 

Yoongi forgets to pay attention to what the gold tastes like. 

"Too much, I'm sure." Namjoon shifts his attention to Taehyung. "I don't know if all of you contributed to this, or if it was just your idea, but… You didn't have to."

"I wanted to," Taehyung says. "I think we all needed an excuse to go out and enjoy ourselves after the past few months we've had." 

Namjoon's gaze flickers to Yoongi once more, hesitant and searching. And some old, quiet part of Yoongi wants to feel embarrassed by this, guilty, because he's the only reason things have sucked lately. He's the only reason Namjoon spent the last few months in pain, afraid of the state of his contract. The only reason Taehyung had to involve himself in a lawsuit, the only reason Jimin has felt the need to check on him nonstop. 

But it's not his fault. He can't control or change what happened to him, and shitty things tend to have a ripple effect like that. Of course the people closest to him would feel it, too. 

He wishes they didn't have to, but that's all it is. A wish. Because he wishes none of this had happened at all. He can't go back, so he chases the thought down with another shot of soju. 

All he can do is go forward. And that means talking to Namjoon, alone, as soon as he can. 

Yoongi waits all evening for the perfect opportunity to present itself, but it's not until he's lying in bed that he finally accepts that it's not going to happen. It might have been easier to suddenly find himself alone with Namjoon if they weren't celebrating his birthday, of all things. It meant no one's attention ever strayed too far from him, and the most Yoongi could do was offer a few fleeting smiles. 

And then, just like that, the night was over. 

Yoongi can't remember the last time he stayed in the house when it was this full, but even alone in his room, he feels cramped and awkward. Maybe it's because two of the remaining three bedrooms are occupied by couples—Jin and Hoseok in one, Jimin and Jungkook in the other—while he and Namjoon are each on their own. No one said anything, but Yoongi can't shake the feeling that they were both being judged; if they could have gotten over themselves and shared, then Taehyung would have a room and a bed instead of volunteering to sleep on the couch. 

It's awkward, and it sucks. It really fucking sucks. 

He sighs and stares up at the dark ceiling, illuminated in pulses by distant headlights filtering in through the gap in the curtains. Yoongi finds himself syncing his breath to it, inhaling deep and slow as they come closer, until the ceiling is splashed in bright light, and exhaling as the car turns and the room goes dark once more. 

But the traffic is too irregular, more frustrating than soothing, and Yoongi gets up to yank the curtains into place. 

It's only when he's standing that he realizes how awake he is, and the sight of his bed—with its covers already in a restless spiral—has never been more unappealing. 

At first, it's the thought of Taehyung that keeps Yoongi in his room. Of everyone at the house, Taehyung is the most likely to actually have serious plans for tomorrow, business to attend to, whatever. But if that was the case, he would have gone home, right? Why opt to sleep on the world's shittiest couch for the second night in a row when a few more minutes on the road would have meant a good night's sleep in his own bed? 

It doesn't matter. Yoongi is sick of standing here, and he needs a fucking drink after the day he had. If Taehyung wakes up and complains, they can trade. Yoongi will take the couch, because at least that will keep him close to the kitchen and the TV. It's not like he expects to get much sleep tonight anyway. 

He's quiet on the way to the stairs, taking careful, measured steps past each room, hesitating for just a moment outside Namjoon's door. He can't help but imagine Namjoon on the other side, sound asleep, lips parted, an arm and a leg flung across a spare pillow to keep it close. It doesn't seem like so long ago that Yoongi was the object of that subconscious cling, something warm and soft for Namjoon to hold. 

The pain rises thick and slow, settling numbly in his throat. It's okay to miss this, to grieve the beautiful thing he lost, but he wasn't prepared for how it would feel to be a doorway away from it. He wasn't prepared to still want it—despite its imperfections. With its imperfections. Because doesn't it mean more, at the end of the day, to know that everything wonderful about Namjoon was deliberate? That he'd sown kindness and care in his heart, nurtured them, until he grew into the person he wanted to be? 

He's still growing. They both are. How horrible would it be to love someone perfect, with no room to grow or change—someone who's good to Yoongi because they're good to everyone, treating him with the same affection they bestow on the world around them? 

It hits him that that's what he'd assumed about Namjoon all along: That he treated all subs the same, passing out bells to the nonverbal ones like candy, staying up with them all night just to speak into an unresponsive phone. 

He was special to Namjoon. He had been from the very start. And it was easy to dismiss Namjoon's early actions, reminding himself that they were strangers, which meant the things Namjoon did for him were things he'd do for anyone. But even that wasn't true. He was a fan, he admired Yoongi—it's probably fair to say he had some kind of superficial crush on him. 

Yoongi can't pretend he wouldn't stay up all night for his celebrity crush if they reached out to him for some reason. It wouldn't matter that they were technically strangers. They'd be someone Yoongi had a connection to, someone who was important to him, even if it was one-sided. His care for them would be genuine, and he'd talk to them as long as they needed him to. Probably feeling flattered and hopeful that they wanted to talk to him at all. 

Was that how Namjoon felt? And as Namjoon got to know him, the mystique of Yoongi's pornstar persona fading away with each interaction, Namjoon only seemed to like him more. 

Why couldn't Yoongi see that? Why wouldn't he let himself see that? 

He turns away from the door, blinking back the pressure behind his eyes. 

The couch is abandoned when he reaches the landing, the covers thrown back haphazardly. As Yoongi makes his way down the remaining steps, he notices the quiet clattering coming from the kitchen, a soft glow emanating into the living room. He almost makes himself turn back—he hadn't planned on having a midnight drinking buddy—but… Fuck it. Taehyung isn't a bad one to have. 

He turns the corner, gently clearing his throat to make his presence known, and it's only then that he realizes his mistake. 

Taehyung is nowhere in sight. The only person in the kitchen is Namjoon, wide-eyed and frozen as if he'd just gotten caught breaking in, a spoon in one hand and a pint of ice cream in the other. 

For once, Yoongi doesn't want to run, doesn't want to scream. It doesn't hurt. He feels nothing at all, suspended in time, a film paused on a single frame—before the reactions hit, before everything falls apart. It's just them standing there, staring at each other, unable to break the silence that's fallen over them. 

Namjoon is in his koala pajama pants that he'd been wearing the first time they ran into each other in this very kitchen, months and months ago. And some part of Yoongi's brain panics, short-circuits. Just for a moment, he's hit with this backward sense of déjà vu, like he's been in the kitchen all this time and everything that happened afterward was his imagination running wild, creating a world in which Namjoon might want him. In which he might want Namjoon. 

But it's the mix of devastation and hope on Namjoon's face that keeps Yoongi in the present; the tired wariness in his eyes, the way he blinks back the glassiness there. Back then, before Yoongi, before all of this, Namjoon never looked this fucking sad. 

And Yoongi doesn't want to feel responsible—because he's not—and he's pretty sure his counselor wouldn't want him to think that. But what else is he supposed to think? If they'd never met, then maybe Namjoon wouldn't look like this right now. 

"Um." It comes out weak and broken, and Namjoon clears his throat before trying again. "I—I can leave. If you want. I mean, leave the kitchen if you're trying to—or leave entirely. I—"

"Don't," Yoongi interjects. He wishes he'd taken the time to put on clothes before coming down, because he feels extra vulnerable in his shorts and t-shirt, but he doesn't want either of them to walk away from this yet. If they do, it feels like they'll never get another chance. "You don't have to…" He trails off, dampening his lips. "Where's Taehyung?" 

Namjoon keeps his eyes down, focused intently on scraping away the top layer of his ice cream with the edge of his spoon. "I couldn't sleep. I figured he needed a room more than I did, so we traded." 

Yoongi smiles despite himself, a small, fragile thing pulling at the corners of his lips. "I was going to do the same thing." 

Namjoon manages to look at him—a fleeting glance before he looks away. "I want you to know," he says in a rush, "that I had nothing to do with… If I'd known you'd be here, I wouldn't have…" 

The hurt comes first, and Yoongi gives himself a moment to feel it. If given the choice, Namjoon would have avoided him. Yoongi releases the pain on a shaky breath, refocusing. The reality is there's nothing Namjoon could say that wouldn't hurt or upset Yoongi in some way. If he'd found out Namjoon had coordinated this to force himself into Yoongi's space, or if he'd known that Yoongi would be here, while Yoongi was left in the dark—those things would have been worse. 

It's not fair to be upset with Namjoon over something like this. When everything Namjoon does is wrong simply because Yoongi's still too hurt, still too sensitive, to let him win. 

"I didn't know you'd be here either," Yoongi says. The least they can do is be honest with each other. "I didn't think I was ready to see you again, and I… I wouldn't have wanted to ruin your birthday." 

"You wouldn't have. You didn't." Namjoon looks at him again, chin raised as if he's physically forcing himself to meet Yoongi's eyes. "I don't give a fuck about my birthday. All I could worry about was making you uncomfortable. Knowing that you weren't ready to see me again, but you were forced to spend the day with me… Fuck, I'm so—"

"Don't be sorry." Yoongi braces himself, giving himself one last chance to back down. But he doesn't want to. "I'm glad I came."

A dozen emotions flicker across Namjoon's face—from surprise to something like hope, which he seems to push down with a furrowed brow and a lip between his teeth. "You are?" he asks quietly, neutrally, a careful tone that Yoongi is unfamiliar with. And all he can think is that Namjoon is trying to prevent a misunderstanding; if he's too outwardly happy, it might force Yoongi into the uncomfortable position of telling him that he's wrong. 

But he's not wrong. Yoongi is glad he came because of him. 

And Namjoon needs to know that. 

"Yeah," Yoongi answers. "Maybe if I'd been left on my own I would have waited forever, but… I'm glad it turned out this way. I guess… I guess I needed to see you again to realize how much I missed you." 

Namjoon's eyes slide closed as if he's in pain, his lip quivering between his teeth, and Yoongi's heart sinks. 

"Don't," Namjoon starts, tight and wavering. He puts the ice cream aside with trembling hands. "Don't say that. I hurt you so badly, and I never even gave you a proper apology, I—"

"But you did," Yoongi interjects. "I read your text. I couldn't respond… It hurt to look at it, but I saw it. And it mattered. I'm sorry if it seemed like I was ignoring you—"

"You don't have to apologize to me. I meant what I said. You didn't owe me anything, and I wanted to give you the space you needed." 

Yoongi nods, his arms winding around himself. "I did need space. I didn't realize how much I was depending on you until—that. I don't know if I would have ever gotten help if I could have continued dumping my problems on you." 

"I never felt like that's what you were doing," Namjoon says, the gentlest smile pulling at his lips, "but I'm glad you're getting help. I don't know if you want to hear this from me, but… I'm proud of you." 

Months ago, standing face-to-face in this very kitchen, Yoongi would have found every possible reason to be annoyed by that. He can imagine that version of himself getting defensive, twisting Namjoon's words into something condescending, something self-serving. Of course he's glad I'm getting help—making sure his competition is in therapy would be the ultimate victory for him, wouldn't it?

It's almost embarrassing. Those thoughts used to come to him so easily, wrapped around him like armor, finding the cruelest interpretation of the most innocent words. 

Yoongi is used to thinking back on old behaviors and wanting to die of shame, hating how he humiliated himself and inconvenienced everyone around him. He spent so much of his relationship with Namjoon looking back and cringing every step of the way, wondering why Namjoon put up with him. He expects that same feeling to hit him now, but… it doesn't. Not really. 

When he looks back on the Yoongi who would have intentionally misinterpreted this, all he can see is someone terrified and insecure. Someone who doesn't truly believe he belongs anywhere, so everyone is a threat. And Yoongi feels sorry for him, and he wishes he can reach out to that version of himself and tell him that he's not replaceable, that he's safe, and that it's okay to let himself believe that the people around him have good intentions. 

Of course, that Yoongi probably would have hissed and spat at him like a feral cat, but still. He would have benefited from hearing those words, whether he admitted it or not. 

"Thank you," he says finally. "I'm… proud of me, too." 

Namjoon's smile reaches his eyes, something warm and familiar glittering in them. Yoongi hadn't realized how empty Namjoon had looked without it, but it's like a light has been flicked back on, a glimmer of hope in the darkness. 

"Can I ask…" Namjoon trails off, dampening his lips. "How are you doing? In general. I mean, you look—you look good." 

Does he? Yoongi hadn't noticed. "I'm… okay," Yoongi admits. "It's really fucking hard sometimes, but… I'm doing okay. Better than I thought I would be. Even if I'm having to face that I'm kind of a shitty person." 

Namjoon almost laughs. "I have a feeling that's not what your counselor said." 

"No," Yoongi agrees, sighing. "It's not. But I've done a lot of shitty things. To you, especially." 

Namjoon blinks at him. "Me?" 

"I really… I owe you an apology, too. I was unfair to you for a long time. You invested so much of your time and energy into me without asking for anything in return, and I… I took advantage of that, whether I meant to or not." Yoongi hesitates, searching Namjoon's eyes. Namjoon is looking right back at him, soft and curious, like he really doesn't know. "When have I ever supported you?" Yoongi asks. "When did you ever reach out to me in a crisis? Did you ever feel like you could?" 

"But I never had a crisis," Namjoon says, but he's floundering, not meeting Yoongi's eyes. "If it seemed like I never reached out to you with anything personal, it would have just been because I didn't want to burden you. You were dealing with so much already—"

"But that's not fair, is it? That's not how relationships—friendships—work." 

"It's okay if things are a little off balance sometimes," Namjoon says. "Sometimes one person needs more help and support than the other, and that's okay as long as things even back out eventually."

"But things were never balanced in the first place, were they?" Yoongi asks, but it's not quite a question. Still, he can feel Namjoon searching for an answer in the silence, a growing tension between them, and that's answer enough.

"I did need you," Yoongi goes on. "I mean, I needed someone, and I was lucky enough to find you. Or for you to find me, I guess. But even then, I was cruel to you." 

Yoongi inhales deeply, bracing himself for what he wants—needs—to say next. 

"I was sexually assaulted." The words still feel wrong in his mouth, like they don’t quite belong to him, like someone will come and make him stop. Like everyone who’s ever been hurt will hear him and suffer that much more because of it. But somehow, for some reason, this is the first time he can bring himself to say it outside of the guilty, halfhearted whisper he saved for his counselor. But the statement lands between him and Namjoon like a corpse, heavy and shameful. 

"I was assaulted," Yoongi repeats, softer, wavering. "I was hurting. You gave me my power back, and the first thing I did was use it against you."

Namjoon pushes out a breath, a shaky gust Yoongi can feel in his own chest. "You didn't do anything wrong," Namjoon tells him. "You had every right to react the way you did. You had—have—every right to cut me out of your life completely." 

It would be so easy to say that that's not what he wants, to start compromising and minimizing his feelings in a fruitless attempt to get them back to the way they were. Things can't go back to the way they were, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. The only mistake Yoongi could possibly make here is pretending that he hasn't been hurting, that the past few months weren't some of the worst of his life. 

But it's that thought, more than anything, that makes it easier to push forward. To say what he needs to say. 

"I've been mad at you for a long time," Yoongi admits. He doesn't let himself look away from Namjoon's face and the barely-concealed hurt there—but Namjoon doesn't look away either. "Part of that, I think, was my fault. I wasn't being fair to you. But… There is one thing I want to know." 

Namjoon is already nodding, shifting like he wants to take a step closer. He stops himself, fidgeting in place. "You can ask me anything you need to. Anything."

Yoongi can't look at him for this, as much as he feels like he should. His gaze jerks to the side, lingering on Namjoon's elbow when he asks, heart in his throat, "You were getting off to that video, right? You were actually—getting off to it." 

He already knows this part—they both do—but he needs to start on even ground. Even so, Namjoon stifles a wounded sound, barely audible in the silence. 

"Yes," he says. No caveats, no excuses. "I did." 

Yoongi nods to himself, his arms tightening around himself protectively. "Why? What part of it did you actually like?" 

Namjoon takes a moment to think about it, his breath just a little too loud, like he's fighting to keep it steady. "Do you remember when I told you that I liked watching your interviews more than your porn sometimes?" 

Yoongi blinks, searching out Namjoon's eyes. Of course he remembers—it was one of the first things Namjoon said to him that cracked the barrier around his heart—but it has nothing to do with what he's asking. "Can you answer my question first?" 

The flinch is barely perceptible, but it's there—in the flutter of Namjoon's eyes, the way his head twitches subtly to the side like he's been slapped. "I'm sorry. I'm—I was just going to say… I hadn't seen you sub in porn in such a long time, and you looked so happy. The beginning part. Even if you weren't smiling the way you used to in those interviews, I could see how much you were enjoying yourself, and it was… Seeing you let go and have fun, thinking you had overcome everything that's happened to you, watching you feel good… That's what I liked."

Yoongi waits for him to continue, to add something about how it got even better once Yoongi fell apart, but he doesn't. The silence lingers until it's almost awkward, then Namjoon says, "I don't think you know how much I watched you. Not your porn, I mean—that too, obviously, but just—our scenes. Your face." Namjoon hesitates, searching Yoongi's face even now. 

He must find what he's looking for, because he goes on, "I know how you look when you feel good. When pain becomes pleasure for you, and when it's just pain… and that's when I would back off, adjust, and ease you into it. I know the way your eyes widen—just slightly—when something scares you, the way you look when you want it anyway, and the way you seem to retreat inside yourself when you don't. And it's different from how you look when you slip into subspace, when your mind shuts off and you just allow yourself to feel. When you're scared and want to stop, it's—it's like a wall comes up. Like you don't want to feel anything at all—good or bad. You want to back away from whatever is hurting you, but you want the pleasure to stop, too. You want everything to just… stop. And that's what I saw in the video, the second the Dom started holding you down. Even if I didn't recognize the scene for what it was, I knew you weren't enjoying yourself anymore. If we were doing a scene, that's where I would have stopped and checked in. But all I could do was stop watching." 

Maybe Namjoon couldn't have known the second the video started, but he knew exactly when to stop—the way he always has. The times he's stopped their scenes without Yoongi even touching his bell—because he was too scared, too far gone—didn't negate how good everything had been before that. It didn't mean Yoongi wasn't having fun before that. 

But Yoongi has to know. "You didn't watch anything after that?" 

"I skipped ahead to the end," Namjoon admits, quiet, "to see if anything changed. If maybe the scene finished filming on another day—but it just seemed to cut off, like a real ending wasn't filmed at all. And you… you didn't look any better. That's when I closed it. I couldn't stand to see you like that, fuck—your face…" 

His face. At the end. The part he's seen screenshots of too many times, the part viewers seemed to love the most. 

Namjoon knew. And the ragged pain in his voice tears into Yoongi's heart, making his next breath come in as a shallow hitch. He knows what it's like to flinch away from a loved one's face when they're in pain—he remembers all too well what Jimin looked like before he used his safeword in their scene so many months ago. The fear in his eyes. The makeup smeared with tears. Yoongi is used to seeing subs with runny makeup and desperate eyes, but it's different when the pain is real and unwanted. Especially on the face of someone he loves. 

That thought cracks open the anger he's been carrying, letting it overflow into something like compassion. "I wish you didn't have to see that," Yoongi says. "For myself, obviously—I didn't want you to see. But for you, too. You shouldn't have had to see that." 

"But I did." Namjoon swallows thickly. "I did, and I'm sorry. I know I can't fix it, or undo what I did—god, I wish I could—but I can tell you…" He hesitates, searching Yoongi's eyes. "Can I tell you?" 

Yoongi barely knows what he's talking about, but he nods anyway. This feels like their only chance to clear the air, and he doesn't want anything left unsaid. 

"I can't change what I did to you," Namjoon says again, "but I don't want to hurt anyone else. The Dom in your scene—he didn't know he was hurting you. It's the company's fault, and his, as a Dom, for not giving you the tools you needed to protect yourself—I hope you realize that. I just don't want to run the risk of being put into a scene with someone who isn't there willingly, or who ends up in a position like you did, all while I'm unaware of what I'm doing to them." 

Namjoon shudders, his face pale, and Yoongi allows himself to wonder if the Dom in his scene felt this guilty in the aftermath. If he's been just as haunted as Yoongi all this time. 

Then he remembers the laughter. The first words the Dom spoke to him after all this time: “You’re not going to pass out on me this time, are you?”

Then it clicks. "Is that why you haven't been doing scenes?" Namjoon nods, quick and small, and Yoongi frowns. "I'm not asking you to give up your job for me, Namjoon. I'm not asking you to give up anything." 

"I know." 

"Why were you so worried about the contract if you're quitting anyway?"

Namjoon sighs, his shoulders slumping. "It wasn't really about the contract. It was just… Obviously, you have the right to talk to whoever you need to. I can't change what I did. I just—worried. About everyone hating me. I didn't want to lose this." He gestures around them, and Yoongi gets it. 

A place to belong. People who understand and accept them. A hodgepodge group of pornstars that somehow feels like family. 

"Besides," Namjoon says, a forced lightness in his tone, "I have another job. This was never my main source of income. I just wanted to find someone to play with without getting attached, and I did. I—I mean," he stammers, "I got attached. So fucking attached, I—but I found someone to play with." His eyes linger on Yoongi's for a moment before darting away, and Yoongi doesn't hold back the smile he feels trying to rise to the surface. 

Namjoon's different. He's always been different. Too soft, too shy for this industry—shocked and awkward over things like a dishwasher full of sex toys and open conversation about enemas and personal grooming. Yoongi always thought Namjoon didn't belong here, and maybe he was right. 

"God, that came out so wrong," Namjoon goes on, pressing his face into his hands. "Please don't take that the wrong way. You were never just someone to play with. I always cared, and I cared more and more every day. So the whole 'no attachments' thing never worked out. I guess you were wrong when you said porn was the wrong industry to find someone I want to marry." He sucks in a breath, quick and sharp, as if he could physically draw the words back in. "Oh my god, I'm fucking this up so bad. This is an apology, not a fucking proposal, I'm not trying to—"

Yoongi still likes him. After everything that's happened, he still fucking likes him. Namjoon is a little bit awkward, a little bit embarrassing, but so overwhelmingly genuine. He's never been anything other than himself, for better or worse, and Yoongi likes that. He always has. Maybe he always will. 

It might take some time to move past the pain between them, but Yoongi wants to move past it, and that time doesn't have to be spent apart. He wants to get to know Namjoon—for real, this time—and let himself have whatever Namjoon is willing to offer him. Whether it's friendship, love, or anything in between. 

"Let's hold off on the wedding," Yoongi says, as warm as he can manage, and there's nothing he can do about the smile on his face. It might be stuck there permanently now that Namjoon is smiling back, soft and sweet. "We've never even been on a proper date, so let's start there, okay?" 

It seems to take Namjoon a moment to process, blinking rapidly as he searches Yoongi's eyes. "You… You're asking me on a date?"

The steady confidence that brought Yoongi this far falters, a whisper of uncertainty making him take a step back. "Only if you want. I want to get to know you—everything about you, not just what you're like in bed. I was attached, too. I guess I still am. But if you're not—"

"I am," Namjoon interjects, a little too quick, a little too loud. They're quiet for a moment, waiting to see if anyone overheard. But even if they did, Yoongi doubts they'd make their presence known at this point. 

"I am," Namjoon says again, quieter, his soft, warm eyes locked on Yoongi's. "I want to go on a date with you if you're willing to give me a chance. I've wanted that for a long time." 

It's not as surprising as it should be. Not as surprising as Yoongi would have expected. But maybe that's because some part of him had known this all along, and he had been too afraid to reach out and take it. 

"I have, too. I almost thought—the first time we went out with Jin and Hoseok, I wanted it to be…" He can't bring himself to admit it, suddenly, but Namjoon is nodding anyway. 

"Me too." Namjoon looks down, sliding his hands down his thighs, faltering when he seems to remember his pajama pants don't have pockets. "Um. There was a part of me that hoped they wouldn't show up. I was having such a nice time with you, but I felt so fucking guilty because I thought… You and Jimin…" 

"Was he really the only reason? All this time?" 

Namjoon shrugs, his face coloring. "I didn't want to interfere." 

"There's nothing to interfere with." Yoongi takes a step closer, holding Namjoon's gaze. "I'm single, so… Go on a date with me." 

Namjoon looks down, deep dimples pressing into his reddened cheeks. "Thank you. For giving me another chance. I won't let you down again—I promise."

Part of Yoongi wants to grab onto that, cling to it with both hands and let himself be lulled into the sense of safety that seems to radiate from Namjoon even now. But that's what got him into this mess in the first place. "Yes you will," he says, soft, but Namjoon flinches anyway. Yoongi moves closer, reaching out just far enough to let the backs of his fingers brush against Namjoon's. "And I'll let you down, too. I can't offer you perfection, and I can't—I don't—expect perfection from you. Not anymore. I never should have in the first place." 

Namjoon lowers his head, lifting his shoulders like a scolded puppy, and maybe that didn't come out quite right. 

He has to get this right.

"You're human," Yoongi says, "but I never allowed you to act like one. In our scenes, when I was in subspace, I would look at you and see… I don't know, a fucking god or something. Someone who knew me inside and out, someone who would know what's best for me—even when I didn't know myself. And I mean, that's part of it. I liked that. But maybe it was just because I was inexperienced, or maybe I just needed someone so badly that I expected you to be that way all the time. To read my mind, to know what's best even outside of scenes. And that wasn't fair to you. I set you up to fail without even trying to, and I'm sorry. I can't promise perfection," Yoongi says again, "but I can promise you I'll do better." 

"I will, too," Namjoon says. "Nothing matters more to me than your safety. Your comfort. And I know you've experienced something I can never fully relate to. And I'll do better to be mindful of that, to check in if something seems off—even if you're not with me. Even if it's just a video."

Yoongi nods, not quite sure where to go from here. Part of him wants to reach out and see if Namjoon reaches back. Wants to hold and be held, but… It feels like too much, too soon, like he's committing to something he's not quite ready to commit to. All he knows is that his heart feels a little lighter, the writhing anxiety that had kept him awake settling into something quiet and calm, and he doesn't want to ruin that by rushing this. 

"Thank you," he says finally. Just for something to say. Just so Namjoon knows that his words mean something to him. "I should get back to bed."

"Wait." Namjoon's voice stops him mid-turn, and Yoongi's heart skips as he faces Namjoon once more. "Didn't you want—I don't know, a snack? That's what you came down here for, isn't it?

Yoongi hesitates, a warm fondness curling in his chest. "Sure," he says. "If you're going to share." He nods toward the melting pint of ice cream, which Namjoon seems surprised to discover is still sitting there. His look of shock quickly shifts into a soft smile. 

"I'll grab us some bowls," Namjoon says, and Yoongi settles in at the table. 

Maybe just a few more minutes. 

Yoongi can barely remember the last time he went on a date, much less the last time he planned one. He spends the morning in bed, scrolling through ideas on his phone. He couldn't possibly top last night's restaurant choice. While there's no shortage of shows in Vegas, even if they could get into something last minute, that's not exactly what Yoongi wants.

He just… wants to spend time with Namjoon. Have the freedom to talk to him without having to yell over a crowd or keep quiet during a show. He wants something to give them just enough of a distraction to keep it from being too awkward, to prompt conversation if they fall into an uncomfortable silence, but everything is just… larger than life. Too loud. Too much. 

The rare times Yoongi does something other than porn while he's in Vegas, all he ever really does is find a casino, plop himself in front of a machine, and sit there until Jimin starts whining—either in person or via text. 

They could do that, he supposes. Namjoon did seem interested in the game he was playing when they first met. It would be fun if one of them happened to get lucky. Maybe. It feels like a reach. 

His phone drops onto the mattress and Yoongi groans into his hands, allowing a moment to feel sorry for himself. He doesn't want to start from square one and see if the spark is still there. He doesn't want to see if he can stand to be in Namjoon's presence after everything that's happened, and he doesn't want to see if Namjoon can be around him without looking guilty or apologizing every two seconds. 

All he really wants is to go back in time. The week leading up to the video being posted, the call from Namjoon—that was the only time in his life when everything felt perfect. He was happy, getting his life back on track, content with his and Namjoon's relationship. 

He knows as soon as the thought crosses his mind that it's not entirely true. Nothing was as perfect as it seemed. It was the eye of the storm, a moment of calm before he was forced to break through to the other side. Something would have gone wrong sooner or later, and he doesn't want to go through that pain again. He fought hard to get where he is today, and he can't bear the thought of undoing all that progress. 

He's exactly where he needs to be, but… He wishes he could look ahead and see how this turns out, because maybe he's just afraid. Afraid that there will be nothing between them anymore, that they can't move past this. He doesn't want to lose Namjoon, but he can imagine it all too clearly: 

A single moment of clarity. They'd be walking down the Strip, maybe, or entering the next casino. It would be crowded, and they'd be forced together—their hands brush, and Yoongi barely notices. Maybe they'd make eye contact afterward as the realization hits them both. There's nothing there anymore. This was a waste of time. The best thing they can do for themselves is call it a night. 

It sounds fucking awful, and it's almost enough for Yoongi to let the whole date thing go. He never mentioned a specific day, so it would be easy to put it off until they can both pretend he never asked at all. 

But he won't know until he tries. And he has to try. 

"Maybe this wasn't the best idea." It's just him and Namjoon now, standing with an awkward gap between them on the sidewalk after their painfully silent Uber ride to the Strip. They were dropped off in front of the Venetian, and it occurs to Yoongi all at once that a gondola ride would have been a quiet, private—even romantic—thing to do for a date. It's too late now, of course. Tickets for that sort of thing probably need to be bought well in advance. 

When they discussed simply wandering the Strip, taking in the sights, and dipping in and out of casinos as the mood hits, Namjoon seemed into it. It suddenly felt like a solid idea, and Yoongi was looking forward to it. But now…

Now he's not quite sure where to start. 

It shouldn't be hard to pick a direction and start walking, but having no real destination, no easily definable time to call it a night, makes it a bit more overwhelming than Yoongi had anticipated. 

"What do you mean?" Namjoon replies. "I've barely taken the time to explore on my own. I love the idea of getting to look around with you." 

"Oh." Yoongi doesn't know what else to say. Face warm, he looks down one side of the street and then the other, weighing his options. As the sun sets over the Strip, it all looks equally interesting—crowds and lights no matter which direction he looks. Which also makes it all equally off-putting. 

"Why don't we just start here?" Namjoon asks, gesturing at the hotel behind them. "There's a casino in here, right?" 

Yoongi huffs, smiling. "There are casinos everywhere. This works." 

He's grateful when Namjoon takes the lead, following him into the warm, golden opulence of the lobby. It's there that Namjoon stops, looking up at the arched ceiling in wonder, taking in the murals and elaborate architecture. 

"Holy shit," Namjoon breathes, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. And Yoongi watches as Namjoon takes pictures, the way he zooms in on the artwork, capturing it with a steady hand. 

The point of this was to talk to Namjoon, so at least this gives him a perfect opportunity. 

"Are you into art?" 

"A little," Namjoon says sheepishly, a smile on his face that seems to say it's no small interest at all. He tucks his phone away after one last photo. "I can't make it myself, but I admire it." 

Well. It's not exactly getting drunk in front of a game of video poker, but… "I'm pretty sure they do art tours," Yoongi says. "Or at least they have, like, booklets at the desk that explain everything." 

Namjoon's eyes brighten in a way Yoongi has never quite seen before, and that's all Yoongi needs. Minutes later, guidebook in hand, Namjoon is leading him back to a giant golden sphere ("An Armillary Sphere," Namjoon tells him, as if Yoongi knows what that is) to start their tour. This isn't how Yoongi imagined the night would start, but as Namjoon gazes up at the dome, eyes alight as he explains the artwork above them is a hand-painted reproduction of a 1725 fresco, it's already better than anything Yoongi could have planned. 

It's nice to listen to Namjoon talk about his interests for once. Yoongi follows along as they walk past towering marble columns, asking questions when he thinks of them just to see Namjoon stop and talk with a broad smile. A lot of his explanations come from the guidebook, but it's not long before Yoongi notices that Namjoon has the book closed entirely, a finger between the pages to save his spot as he speaks from his own knowledge and insight. And Yoongi's much more interested in that than anything a book has to say. 

"I never imagined you'd be into stuff like this," Yoongi says when Namjoon finishes gushing over a sculpture. 

"Really?" Namjoon's eyebrows lift in surprise. "You were always staring at the shelf with all my artbooks during our…" He hesitates, his eyes following the never-ending stream of people around them, as if the word 'scene' would even mean anything to a stranger in this context. Even if it did, this is fucking Vegas—no one would care. "When you'd come over," he amends quietly. "I always thought you were judging me." 

"I—what?" Yoongi points at the glasses he's been wearing since they started the tour. "Namjoon, I couldn't have read the titles of any of those books to save my life. I couldn't see them at all." 

"Oh, thank god." It comes out on a breath that sounds like Namjoon has been holding for months, and Yoongi can't stop himself from laughing. A second later, Namjoon joins him, and it's not funny at all, but Yoongi can't seem to stop. It might just be the sheer joy of being able to laugh with Namjoon again, the realization that they can still laugh together at all. 

Everything feels a little lighter after that. A little easier. 

They still end up making their way to the casino, sitting side-by-side at Jacks or Better machines where Yoongi barely pays attention to his own screen in favor pointing at Namjoon's, showing him which cards to hold and complaining every time he tries to place the minimum bet, cigarette bobbing between his lips as he explains the pay table. 

Namjoon scratches the back of his head, the finger of his free hand hovering over the 'Max Bet' button. "I don't know what I'm doing. I can't afford to lose five dollars per hand." 

Yoongi rolls his eyes fondly and digs his wallet out of his pocket. "I'll take care of you," he says, sliding a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill into the machine. 

Namjoon's giggle is nearly lost under the loud chiming and music from the machines around them, the bright blue lights from the screen illuminating his face and casting shadows in his dimples. "That was so sexy of you." It sounds like a joke, but there's a soft glint in Namjoon's eyes that makes it feel a little too sincere. 

Yoongi looks away quickly, holding his cigarette between two fingers as he drains what's left of his drink. He watches over the rim of the glass as Namjoon deals a new hand, and Yoongi waves his free hand frantically when three Jacks appear on the screen. 

"Right," Namjoon says, nodding as he taps the cards. "Because they're Jacks." 

Yoongi swallows, putting the glass aside. "No—I mean, yes, but it's three of a kind."

Namjoon blinks up at the pay table. "So I win?" 

"Well—yeah, it's a guaranteed win, I guess, but you have to draw again. You could still get—"

Namjoon draws again, and the machine dings as it adds his winnings to his total.

"Oh! Four of a kind?" He's smiling up at Yoongi but he doesn't seem to get it, and Yoongi laughs.

"Yeah. Cash out," he says, "that's six hundred and fifty bucks." 

Namjoon's eyes widen comically as he looks between Yoongi, the pay table, and his total. "Oh—Oh!" He jumps out of his seat and jabs his fists into the air so quickly that Yoongi has to jerk back to avoid getting decked, but it's worth it to see the pure joy on Namjoon's face. "We won!" 

Namjoon turns toward him, and just for a second, Yoongi thinks he's about to hug him. He braces himself, not quite sure if he wants it or not, but Namjoon seems to catch himself, his smile faltering. He shifts his attention back to the machine and cashes out. 

He ends up splitting the winnings with Yoongi, on top of giving him his one hundred dollars back—despite Yoongi's protests. "It's all because of you anyway," Namjoon says, and Yoongi doesn't have the heart to argue. 

"Where to next?" Namjoon asks when they get outside. He has a look in his eyes Yoongi knows all too well—the fiery energy of the night's first win bleeding into a hunger for more. 

Yoongi shrugs, smiling. "Pick a direction. We can do whatever you want."

They drop into a few more casinos as they make their way through the Strip, never lingering too long, taking a break after a while to step into a dessert shop. It's sensory overload: colorful polka dot walls lined with neon lights, display cases showing off a rainbow of richly colored macarons, chocolates, and cakes, all separated with neon-colored dividers so bright they seem to glow. But it smells like heaven, and Namjoon is entranced by the chocolate fountain suspended from the ceiling with elaborate, Willy Wonka-esque pipes and valves. 

"That's the last of your winnings you get to spend," Yoongi tells him once they snag a table in the corner. He picks the bright blue macaron off the top of his cake, licking away the icing that had secured it in place. He's so overwhelmed by the rich sweetness of it that he almost misses the way Namjoon's focus lingers on his tongue. "Keep the money you came with in one pocket and your winnings in another, and don't touch them. That way, you always come out ahead." 

"I know, but… This is a date, right?" Namjoon actually sounds a little unsure, poking distractedly at his tiramisu as he glances at Yoongi for confirmation. When Yoongi nods, he goes on, "So I wanted to treat you." 

Yoongi grins, taking a bite of his macaron. "You realize you have this backward, right? I asked you. I should be paying." 

"We've always done things a little backward, haven't we?" Namjoon asks, soft and teasing. "We saw each other naked before we even knew each other's real names. Besides," he adds, smiling gently, "I like doing things for you." 

Yoongi looks down, stabbing his fork through the fondant layer on top of the little sponge cake. He's already regretting his choice. The sweetness is too much for him, but at least it gives him something to look at besides Namjoon. 

"So," he says, "tell me about your job. Jingle writing. What do you do every day, just sit down at the piano and try to think of words that rhyme with 'toilet paper' or something?" 

Namjoon laughs. "No, it's not like that. I mean, I do spend time coming up with little melodies I can plug lyrics into later, but it's pretty flexible. I have a good reputation with an ad agency, so I have a steady stream of work. I spend most of my days in my studio, though."

Yoongi blinks up at him, intrigued. "Your studio?" It sounds so… professional. Legitimate. More so than Yoongi would have imagined.

"Mhm," Namjoon hums around a bite of tiramisu. "It's in my basement." 

Yoongi slumps back in his chair, mouth falling open. "You've had a home studio all this time and you never showed me?" 

"I didn't think you'd be interested." Namjoon sounds genuinely surprised, and it stings. It's just a reminder that Yoongi never showed interest in him the way he should have, never asked the most basic questions. "Most people find it pretty boring, to be honest."

"Of course I'm interested," Yoongi says. He goes back to destroying the fondant. "I told you I wanted to study music, didn't I? I used to try to write lyrics." 

"I can show you sometime." Namjoon hesitates, faltering. "I mean, if you want. If you ever—you know. What made you stop writing lyrics?" he adds in a rush, like he's trying to distract from the fact he'd just unintentionally invited Yoongi over. 

But Yoongi doesn't want to talk about himself. He shrugs. "I don't know. Life, I guess. But it sounds like a good job—it must be nice to spend time doing something creative." 

"It is." 

Yoongi can feel Namjoon's eyes on him, and he forces himself to take a little bite of his cake as an excuse for the silence. He needs to think of something new to say, but he's not used to feeling this awkward in Namjoon's presence. Everything used to be so easy. 

Namjoon slides the aesthetic little jar of tiramisu across the table. "Want to trade?" he asks. "I wish I'd gotten something a little more sweet." There's something warm and knowing in his eyes, like he can still read Yoongi's mind after all these months apart. 

Yoongi takes a moment to be sure, to ask if Namjoon really means it, before passing the cake his way. One bite of tiramisu and Yoongi is already melting, humming happily—the sweetness is more subtle, balanced out perfectly by the taste of the coffee. 

"God," he sighs, "that's fucking amazing. Are you sure you don't want this?" 

"I'm sure." Namjoon smiles at him, an open fondness in his eyes that Yoongi hasn't seen in so long. "My brain is, like, rejecting the taste of coffee this late at night." 

Yoongi hums around another bite, nodding. At least Namjoon looks equally happy with the cake, digging into it with more enthusiasm. Still—Yoongi doesn't think he asked for his own benefit. 

"How do you always know?" he asks. When Namjoon looks up at him blankly, Yoongi adds, "What I need. Or what I want, I guess. It always felt like you could read my fucking mind." 

Namjoon shrugs, curling his lips between his teeth shyly. "Oh. I don't know. I guess being observant and, like, meeting needs before anyone can ask is just—a Dom thing, maybe. I grew up learning to watch the people I care about, looking for subtle signs they're uncomfortable or unhappy. It's a habit." 

"Why?" Yoongi is almost afraid to know. Afraid to have the fears that flitted in the corner of his mind in Namjoon's garden confirmed. 

"Ahh…" Namjoon seems to deflate, rubbing a hand through his hair. "I don't want to ruin our date by talking about my terrible childhood." 

"You can talk about anything you want," Yoongi says, hoping he sounds even half as trustworthy and safe as Namjoon does when Yoongi opens up to him. "That was the point of all of this. I want to know you the way you know me." 

Namjoon searches his eyes for a moment, something soft and vulnerable in his expression that Yoongi wants to protect. "I—don't really like to talk about it all that much. For my own sake. I've worked through it all with a counselor, like, I've come to terms with it, I just—it's not something I like to remember." 

Yoongi nods. He gets that. Before he can say so, Namjoon adds, "I spent a lot of time protecting my mom and my sister from my dad, that's all. Sometimes coming home from school and being able to read the look on my mom's face… it was, like, survival. The difference between a normal night and someone getting hurt. Or one where my sister and I fell asleep to the sound of them screaming at each other." 

"Jesus," Yoongi breathes, a sick feeling churning in his stomach. All he can think about is the way Namjoon flinched back from him when he slammed his hands on the table all those months ago, the look on his face when Yoongi screamed at him. "I wish I had known." 

"What? Why?" 

"The way I screamed at you—"

"No," Namjoon interjects, firm. "You're allowed to be angry at me. Everyone has been through shit. That doesn't give them a free pass—"

"You're right. It doesn't," Yoongi agrees. "So don't try to give me a free pass either. I mean, I probably shouldn't be hitting things in front of anyone—but… You said last night that you wanted to be mindful of what I've been through, even if you don't understand it. I want to be mindful of your needs, too." 

Namjoon looks at him like he's seeing him for the first time, his brows raised and lips parted, and Yoongi can't decide if that's a good thing or not. So he keeps talking.

"I do think I had a right to be mad at you. I'm not saying that I didn't. I just wish—I wish I'd taken the time to get to know you, to learn about the things that upset you. I probably—I don't know, in that moment I might have fucked up anyway, but I think I can do better. I want to do better." 

And when Namjoon smiles and thanks him, it almost feels like they're getting somewhere. Like there may be hope for them after all. 

It feels like a good note to end the night on. When they leave the dessert shop, Yoongi is already reaching for his phone to get an Uber, only to notice Namjoon looking at something across the street. 

"What's going on over there?" Namjoon asks, nodding toward the crowded sidewalk. 

"Oh. It's a big ass fountain. They do, like, shows synchronized to music every half hour or so." Yoongi glances at the time on his phone. "I guess one is about to start." 

"Wanna check it out?" The brightness in Namjoon's voice makes it clear that he wants to check it out, so Yoongi's prepared to do it. He's never bothered trying to catch a show up close because of the crowds, pushy and eager to get an unobstructed shot for social media, but he can at least try. 

As they rush across the street, low piano music thrums from the fountain's speakers and the crowd quietens. Namjoon picks up his pace, making his way onto the sidewalk in an almost jog, stopping to look over his shoulder as Yoongi hurries after him. 

He follows Namjoon along the sidewalk as the music slowly grows in intensity, clarinets joining the piano, somber and powerful, while Namjoon angles his head to look for a clearing over the shoulders of the crowd. 

"Over here," he says, his voice almost lost under the roar of the first set of fountains going off. He extends his arm, making room for Yoongi to pass in front of him, and they squeeze into a gap in the crowd at the railing just as the show gets into full swing. The music becomes something epic and ethereal with the addition of wordless, operatic vocals, the fountains illuminated from beneath as water spouts twist and twirl like dancers.

It feels like something timeless, otherworldly; spouts of water reaching impossible heights as the song continues to build in intensity, and just for a moment, Yoongi forgets about the people around him. It's just him and Namjoon, standing side-by-side before something magical, a story told without words, a power that silences the world and commands the water to rise. 

The show is already worth it, but then Yoongi glances at Namjoon. He's entranced, his eyes reflecting the lights of the fountain, and Yoongi's lost, overwhelmed. He tears his gaze away from Namjoon, letting himself be swept up by the music instead of the fluttering in his chest.

And then it happens: The moment of clarity. 

The music reaches a crescendo, falling quiet as the fountain goes dark. It's not for very long—just a breath to release the tension—but it must be enough for some to think the show is over. When the music starts again, low and soft as little spirals of water dance across the fountain's surface like sprites, everyone presses back in. 

A shoulder knocks into Yoongi's, pushing him into Namjoon's space, their hands brushing between them. It's quick, a barely-there touch, but it sets Yoongi's skin alight, a warm tingle of comfort, desire, and home that Yoongi hasn't felt in so long, that he missed without fully realizing he'd lost it. He feels it in his heart, his lungs, in the heat rising to his cheeks. He turns to look at Namjoon, to meet the eyes that are already watching him, and—

Oh. 

The spark is still there. It surges back to life, igniting the love and desire buried deep in Yoongi's core. Behind them, the music swells, louder and grander than ever, but it somehow seems to fade under the pounding of Yoongi's heart, the soothing silence radiating from Namjoon. He's looking back at Yoongi with the same awe he had for the fountain, like Yoongi is something wonderful, magical—a privilege to behold. 

Namjoon lifts a hand, and Yoongi is already nodding. He doesn't want Namjoon to ask; he only wants him to take—and he does. 

His palm cradles Yoongi's cheek as their lips meet, the lights flashing behind them as the show reaches its climax, and Namjoon kisses him like he loves him. Yoongi's arms wind around Namjoon's shoulders, keeping him close as they melt into each other. For as hard as it had been to get used to talking and existing comfortably in each other's presence, their bodies must have never forgotten how to hold each other, their lips clinging like they never want to be separated again. 

They kiss until the music stops and the fountain goes dark, the last spray of suspended water falling like rain, until the murmuring of the dispersing crowd draws Yoongi back to earth. They part slowly, Namjoon pressing one last fleeting kiss against the corner of Yoongi's lips, pulling away just enough to look at each other. 

Yoongi doesn't know what to say. But Namjoon, as always, says it for him: "I missed you." 

He slumps into Namjoon's arms, pressing their cheeks together as Namjoon holds him—warm and solid as ever. "I missed you, too," he murmurs against Namjoon's ear, lips brushing against delicate skin, and Namjoon shivers, his hold tightening. "I missed you from the moment you left." 

Namjoon buries his face in his hair, and his chest swells against Yoongi's as he breathes him in. And if his breath hitches, stutters a little, Yoongi pretends not to notice. He only holds Namjoon tighter and says, "Let's go home." 

This time, the ride is quiet but comfortable, their fingers subtly overlapping on the seat between them. When they're dropped off, the house is quiet and dark, and Yoongi steps ahead of Namjoon to unlock the door without making a commotion. 

"Let's talk out back," he murmurs as he opens the door. As much as he wants to go to his room and ride the high of this moment, to lie in bed, touch his lips, and remember the feeling of Namjoon's mouth, they've both had enough fear and doubts over the past few months. They need to know where they stand. 

Namjoon nods, and his presence is quiet and steady as Yoongi leads him through the darkened living room and into the kitchen. It takes a bit of effort, a bit of patience, to get the back door to slide open without it screeching and grinding against the track, but he manages to open it enough for them to squeeze through. 

They don't speak as he closes it behind him just as carefully, the cool desert breeze ruffling his hair. And then, finally, for the first time all night—they're alone. 

And Yoongi has no idea what to say. 

He takes his time pulling out his cigarettes, focusing intently on bringing the flame to the tip and watching the embers flare to life. It's as soothing as the hot smoke that rushes over his tongue and into his lungs, and he lets it back out with a little sigh. 

When he looks up, Namjoon is watching him. 

"Sorry," Namjoon murmurs, quick and quiet. "I just… missed looking at you." 

Yoongi's face warms. "Yeah." He scratches at his nose with the edge of his thumb, just for something to do. "Sometimes I would look for you. When I'd go out, I mean—it wasn't often, I've been staying home a lot, but… at the airport. I kept looking around for silver hair." 

Namjoon drags his hand through his hair, a frown pulling at his lips. "I guess I should have touched it up before I came." 

"It doesn't matter," Yoongi says. "Your hair wasn't the only thing I missed." 

"You really missed me? After…?" 

The quiet, vulnerable hope in Namjoon's voice makes Yoongi take a moment to consider his words, to strike the balance between honesty and tact. "I won't pretend it was that simple. I missed you while being angry at you. I was angry at you for being someone worth missing, but someone who could still hurt me that badly." 

"I'm so—"

"Don't," Yoongi says, a little more sharply than he had intended. In a gentler tone, he adds, "I don't want another apology. You've said everything I need to hear. It's… I don't know. I don't want a relationship where you constantly apologize to me. It's uncomfortable. And not healthy, probably." 

And there it is: what he really wants to talk about. Their relationship. What it is, what it isn't, and what it could be. Maybe it's too much to expect to hash it all out now, but they have to start somewhere. 

"I'm sorry," Namjoon says. "For apologizing too much, I mean. Or making you uncomfortable. That's the last thing I want." 

"I know." Yoongi searches Namjoon's eyes in the dim yellow porch light. "What's the first thing you want?" 

"You." It comes quick and sure, probably the first thing Namjoon has said all night that wasn't colored with self-doubt. "In any form that I can have you. Whether that's as a friend, or…" It creeps back into his voice now—the uncertainty, the hesitance. "Or… whatever you want." 

It's not quite the Namjoon Yoongi remembers. 

He's always been awkward, but despite that, he had a natural confidence. A way of saying what he thought, what he wanted, whether it came out weirdly or not. But he's not doing that anymore. 

"What's wrong?" Yoongi asks. They've both had personal battles to fight over the past few months—that much was obvious from the moment Namjoon arrived—but Yoongi doesn't know if he's witnessing the impact of the guilt eating Namjoon alive, or something more. As always, he doesn't know the first thing about Namjoon, but now, at least, he has the presence of mind to ask. "It's like… you're afraid to say what you're thinking." 

"Sorry." Namjoon flinches the second the word leaves him. "I'm not trying to—I guess I'm overthinking this." 

Yoongi lets himself take a step closer, angling his head to blow a stream of smoke away from Namjoon's face. "Why?" 

Namjoon pushes out a breath, a sad sound that's almost a laugh. "I guess I've been doubting myself ever since the night you asked me to leave."

Yoongi flinches against the pang in his chest. 'Asked'. Even now, Namjoon gives him more credit, more leeway than he deserves. "I was so scared to leave you," Namjoon goes on. "You were already dealing with one nightmare, and you were in such a bad mental state, I…" Namjoon looks away, swallowing hard, and suddenly Yoongi thinks he knows where this is going. 

"I thought what I did might be the thing that pushed you over the edge," Namoon admits, barely a whisper, and it turns Yoongi's bones to ice. "I was so scared you were going to hurt yourself, or… or worse. And there was nothing I could do to help you. Walking away from you that night—it was the hardest thing I've ever done. And I spent every second afterward wondering if it was the worst mistake of my life." 

No one knows. No one knows besides his counselor, and some part of Yoongi always wanted to keep it that way, but it suddenly feels like Namjoon should hear it. That he should have the whole picture so he can begin to heal. 

"I thought about it," Yoongi admits, staring down at the tip of his cigarette as he flicks away the ash. "Everything hurt so much, and I… I realized I could make it stop." 

"Oh, Yoongi…" Namjoon breathes, and Yoongi is glad he isn't looking at him, because he doesn't know if he could bear the expression that matches the devastation in Namjoon’s voice. 

"I didn't try anything, exactly, but… that thought scared me," Yoongi goes on. "It made me think of all the good things I had in my life, and… and that included you. But that's what made me get help in the end. I knew I wasn't alone, and I had people who cared about me, but I also needed to learn to stand on my own. It wasn't fair to put the weight of my well-being on one person. It wasn't fair to you, and it wasn't fair to me." 

He inhales deeply, forcing himself to meet Namjoon's eyes. "You should never be in a position where you feel like one wrong move will make me hurt myself. You're allowed to walk away from me, to say no, to reject me. To say what you're thinking, even if I won't like it. My life is not in your hands, no matter what we do in our scenes." 

Namjoon's breath hitches, his lips quivering where they're pressed in a tight line. "I love you," he breathes, his voice cracking, and it hits like a wrecking ball in Yoongi’s chest, crashing through to his heart and nearly bringing him to his knees. "I always have." 

And Yoongi can feel it in the air between them, the unspoken 'but', and he tries not to let it show on his face. If everything has been fake up until now, just Namjoon trying to keep him happy, keep him alive—then there's nothing here worth pursuing. He has to be okay with letting go of the only thing he's ever wanted if it means Namjoon can be happy.

"And I'm so proud of you," Namjoon goes on. "Of the person you are and the one you're becoming. And I… I hope, on your journey, as you heal—I hope there's still room for me beside you." 

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, for Yoongi's brain to line the pieces up and realize that it's not the rejection he'd been expecting. 

It's… the exact opposite. 

"Oh," Yoongi breathes, and he's surprised to feel the stray tear trickling down his cheek. "Oh." The smile on his face almost hurts, and he lets his cigarette drop to the concrete as he wipes at his eyes. 

"Can I touch you?" Namjoon asks, and Yoongi nods rapidly, reaching out his arms. 

"Don't you ever ask me that again." 

He's swooped into Namjoon's arms in an instant, crushed against a warm chest, and Yoongi never wants to let go of this again. His arms wind around Namjoon's shoulders as he pushes himself onto his toes, holding on tight. 

"I think I've loved you ever since we met at that stupid pink tea shop," he says, and Namjoon giggles against him, a warm rumble that melts Yoongi from the inside out. 

"And I never fucking stopped," Yoongi adds, partially because he wants Namjoon to know, and partially because it feels so good to finally say it out loud. "I want you beside me, and not just because you were good to me when I was at my worst. I want you to see me at my best. I want to give as much to you as you gave to me." 

"God—I want to… I don't know. Do something romantic, like, pick you up and spin you around, but I don't think it will be as impressive if you don't run into my arms first." 

Yoongi laughs, he can't help himself. He presses his face against Namjoon's neck and laughs, squeezing him tight. He loves this wonderful, sincere, gentle giant of a man, his awkwardness and kindness, soft and pure under the intimidating exterior. 

He kisses Namjoon's cheek, then shifts back enough to press another kiss against the curve of his lips. "I'm not about to walk across the yard in the dark just to run back into your arms." 

Namjoon snorts, his lips meeting Yoongi's in another clinging peck. "No fun," he murmurs against Yoongi's mouth. 

"Some other time," Yoongi promises, and that's the amazing thing. They don't have to do everything now. They both want this—this unconventional, backward love that formed between them. Now they have the chance to start at the beginning and meet each other halfway.

They have all the time in the world if they want it, and Yoongi wants it more than anything. Because he's finally found something that matters more than trophies, something that will outlast a career focused on youth and beauty. And maybe the journey here was hard, but Namjoon was worth it. 

Yoongi is worth it—this love, this forgiveness, this chance to grow and heal together. And maybe accepting that is what matters most of all. 

Chapter Text

"Hey guys, it's Suga." 

Yoongi waves at the webcam perched atop the computer in Namjoon's studio. It's private and soundproof, which makes it the perfect place for a video like this. Yoongi can talk here easier than he can anywhere else. "I'm sorry to say I'll be keeping my clothes on for this, so… Don't expect anything too exciting." 

He'd put all his attempts at a script aside before heading downstairs, giving himself room to say what he was thinking, what he was feeling. About what had happened to him, and about the future. His fans, however many there may be, deserve to know what's coming next. 

"I’ve gotten messages from some of you asking what happened to my most recent video," he says. "Some of you seemed to think there was something wrong with it. And… You were right. There was something wrong with it. Several things. That video is over a year old, and… it was why I stopped subbing. I spent most of the last year practicing, trying to get over it, because I thought the only thing that mattered was subbing on camera again." 

He looks down, rubbing his hands over his thighs, and a bright blue sticky note on the edge of the monitor catches his attention: Yoongi — I believe in you!! xoxo Namjoon

It's covered in a messy smattering of scribbled hearts, and Yoongi smiles to himself, shaking his head fondly as warmth floods his cheeks.

"A part of me still wants that," he goes on, lifting his eyes to the camera once more. Onscreen, he can see the pink dusting his cheeks, the sparkle in his eyes, and he wonders if anyone will notice. "But I don’t know if I can ever get to that point. The video was posted without my consent. The last part of the video was filmed without my consent, actually."

It gets a little easier each time he says it, feeling less like something shameful. It feels… Bad, still. The memory will always be bad, and the fact that it happened at all will always be something he regrets, but the words themselves have their own sort of power. He survived; it's the only reason he's able to speak at all, and he's still blown away by that. 

He's here—alive, in this home he now shares with Namjoon, his old life buried and grieved, flowers growing upon its grave.

"To be clear," he says to the camera, "no one intended to hurt me. I didn’t have a way to communicate that I wanted the scene to stop, so it went on longer than it should have. And maybe it’s surprising to hear that someone who gets fucked for a living can be traumatized over getting fucked onset, but that’s what happened. I thought I was getting better until the video was posted, and when I realized I hadn’t healed at all—or at least, not in the way I thought I had. I had worked back up to subbing privately, but knowing strangers could see me at my most vulnerable wasn’t fun anymore.

"I never realized that subbing was something special to me until it was almost ruined for me. Or… I guess until I had someone I could trust with it in private. But I think that’s why I should keep my work and private life separate. If something else goes wrong on set in the future, I don’t want it to impact me the way this did. I want to leave my bad days at work like the rest of the world does, and come home to a place where I can put it out of my mind.

"I’m not quitting porn." Yoongi makes sure to say it clearly, firmly, because he's sure. And he wants his fans to know. He wants the scared part of his subconscious to hear him and be comforted by it. "I like what I do, but things will be different. Or from your perspective, as a viewer, maybe it won’t look all that different. Who knows." He shrugs.

"I’ll keep Domming, but I found out one of my friends is a Dom in his personal life who bottoms—maybe I could try something like that. I want to switch it up and find ways to have fun with it, to make it true to who I am, even if I’m not subbing. Would anyone be interested in that? Let me know." 

Yoongi reaches to turn the camera off, only to pause with his finger just above the button. All at once, he remembers how Namjoon looked when they saw each other again after everything; the haunted look in his eyes, the broken curl of his shoulders. "One more thing," he says, leaning back in his chair to put himself in focus again. He never planned on saying this in any of his halfhearted scripts, but it seems right. More than that, he means it. If it can bring anyone a shred of comfort, then he wants to say it. 

"To anyone who may have enjoyed the video or got off on it… it’s okay. I don’t want you to think you did anything wrong. You had no way of knowing what happened on set that day, or the circumstances surrounding the video being posted. For all you knew, it was a normal video, and you responded to it the way you normally would. You can drive yourself mad going down the moral rabbit hole of whether or not the porn you watch is ethical. If you’ve followed me for any length of time, you probably know by now that my consent is usually pretty enthusiastic. Why would this have been any different?"

He doesn’t want fans who have supported him all this time to feel like they’re complicit in his trauma. Or, at the very least, carry the guilt of getting off to it.

They don’t deserve that. Even the ones who told him how good he looked did so in good faith—for the most part, anyway. There will always be creeps and weirdos out there, but there are good people who support him, too. Good people who were excited to see their favorite submissive actually doing a sub video again, and reacted to it with the level of enthusiasm that he would have hoped to receive for a real return to subbing.

He can’t blame people for consuming porn the way it’s meant to be consumed—and he doesn’t want to. Pornstars, and their fans, are made to feel guilty enough for existing as it is. 

And that's the note he wants to end on. 

"Don’t feel too bad about it," he says. "Seriously. I'm okay now." 

He's said that so many times over the past few months, but for the first time, it feels true. He's okay. This time last year, he never could have imagined saying this, but…

"I'm happy. I'm really, really happy." 

"How did it go?" Namjoon's voice greets him as soon as Yoongi emerges from the basement. He's right where Yoongi left him: on the couch, legs tucked under him, so soft in his too-short sweatpants and oversized shirt. 

"Good," Yoongi says as he joins him. "I went ahead and posted it, so… everyone knows now." His phone buzzes in his pocket—the first reaction, maybe, or something entirely unrelated—and it makes his skin hot, his throat tight, a million regrets already running through his mind. He slips his hand into his pocket and powers off his phone; he'll deal with notifications when he's ready for them. Right now, he's not.

And that's okay. 

Namjoon's arm slides around his shoulder, lips pressing against Yoongi's temple. "I know it wasn't easy," he murmurs against Yoongi's skin, the heat from his breath making Yoongi shiver, "but you're so strong. I hope you know that." 

Yoongi's eyes flutter closed as he leans into Namjoon's embrace, the warmth of his words pulsing through him. Strong. He remembers the first time Namjoon called him that. He couldn't bring himself to believe it, anger and embarrassment growing over him in a thick layer of ice, rough edges sticking out from him like spines. And maybe that's because he didn't fully trust Namjoon yet. Maybe he didn't trust himself. 

Neither of those things is true anymore. 

He is strong. He knows that. And it means even more to hear that from someone he loves. From someone who's always loved him, even at his lowest. It meant everything to have Namjoon with him, holding his hand at the bottom of the valley, waiting patiently as Yoongi climbed his way out. Yoongi doesn't know if they've reached the top yet, but he knows he wants to get there together, to reach their peak, and then keep going, exploring the highest of highs. 

There will be more valleys, Yoongi knows. His own, and Namjoon's, too. And he doesn't plan on letting go of Namjoon's hand, no matter which of them slips first. 

"Thank you," he murmurs, turning his head to brush his lips against Namjoon's. "I love you." 

Namjoon's other arm wraps around his waist, drawing him in closer. "Love you, too," he says against Yoongi's lips, and then they're kissing, slow and easy, a dance that's comfortable and familiar. 

And it feels good, right, when Namjoon's fingers slip under the edge of his shirt, grazing over the small of his back in trails of embers. Yoongi's arms slide around Namjoon's shoulders, holding on as Namjoon angles him back, a thick thigh nudging Yoongi's legs apart. 

They haven't done a scene together yet. They've been taking it slow, shoring up the foundation of their relationship before they went any further. It was nice to spend time with Namjoon for a couple of months without the intensely charged energy between them, without each interaction serving as merely a stepping stone to more.

But it wasn't long before they wanted more anyway.

Yoongi craved him the way he always had, flames sparking to life in his belly when Namjoon would touch him just so, when their eyes would meet and Yoongi could see the unmasked desire there.

Still, they took their time and relearned each other's bodies as equals, getting fully comfortable with intimacy until Yoongi realized he was forgetting to be nervous, until they could have sex without the emotional exhaustion that followed. The bad memories were still there, just under the surface. Maybe they always will be. Yoongi still doesn't like to be fucked from behind, still doesn't want his eyes covered. Sometimes, certain things bother him more than others; a touch that scares him one day might get him off the next, but he's lucky. Namjoon knows this—all of this. They can talk about it openly, and it makes everything feel okay.

Right now, Yoongi is too distracted by Namjoon's lips for his mind to wander into the dark, the warm hands sliding his shirt up his torso keeping the icy fear at bay. He leans up so Namjoon can tug his shirt up and off, flopping back against the couch as Namjoon flings it aside. 

Namjoon bends forward to kiss him again, but Yoongi stops him with two gentle fingers on his lips. 

"What's up?" Namjoon asks as he sits back up. He combs his fingers through Yoongi's hair. "Don't tell me I completely misread your mood." 

Yoongi shakes his head. Maybe he just feels a little better, a little more confident, after posting his video, after thinking through his future in porn, or maybe it's just the right time. But once the thought hit, he couldn't shake it. "I just… want to try something." 

His tone must give him away because Namjoon suddenly looks more serious. "You sure?" 

"Nothing too crazy, just… cuffs, maybe?"

Namjoon smiles, the pad of his thumb tracing over Yoongi's lower lip. "You want your collar, too?" 

The heat beneath Yoongi's skin flares. His collar. Namjoon has never called it that before; Yoongi never dared to even think it. He used to imagine Namjoon using it on every sub he played with—before he met Yoongi, of course, but after, too. He never thought Namjoon played with him exclusively, but he knows better now. 

"Yes," Yoongi breathes. "Yes Sir." 

He's close enough to see Namjoon's pupils dilate, a dark desire radiating from him that Yoongi hasn't felt in so long. Namjoon's hand moves to cup Yoongi's chin, cradling it between his thumb and the curl of his fingers in a way that makes Yoongi feel so deliciously small.

"You want to do a scene?" Namjoon asks. 

Part of Yoongi wants to say yes, throw caution to the wind, and embrace this. He trusts Namjoon, and this is nothing they haven't done before, but still… It's been a long time. So much has changed between them, and while that change has been for the better, Yoongi still wants to take things slow. 

"A casual one, maybe?" he suggests. "I don't know if that's a thing. I just…"

"Sure. It can be a thing." Namjoon kisses him, quick and soft. "Just regular sex with cuffs and a collar?" 

Yoongi squirms beneath him at the thought, rubbing his thigh against Namjoon's. He reaches up, tugging at a lock of silver hair. "You can take the lead, be a Dom. I just want to hold onto some control, I guess." 

Namjoon hums, leaning in for another kiss—slower this time, deeper, his fingers tracing the curve of Yoongi's cheek.

"Take your clothes off and wait for me on the bed," Namjoon tells him. "I have an idea." 

That's all it takes to make Yoongi's breath catch, for his legs to shake like a foal's when he stands. Namjoon keeps him balanced with a hand on his elbow until he steadies himself, and Yoongi is almost surprised by how much he missed this, how badly he must have been craving it to be this worked up over the thought of handcuffs. 

But it's not really about the tools they use, Yoongi realizes as he removes the rest of his clothes in the bedroom. It's just—this. Submitting to Namjoon, trusting him, and letting himself be vulnerable. Restraints and toys keep it interesting, but they're only as appealing as the Dom behind them. It doesn't matter what Namjoon's idea is; it could be nothing at all aside from the buildup of anticipation. What matters is that it's Namjoon, and Yoongi is already hard as he moves to lie down on the bed. 

"Pretty," Namjoon says from the doorway, his shoulder propped against the frame. His arms are folded across his chest, the collar and a pair of matching cuffs dangling from his fingers. He looks like he's been there for a while, and Yoongi's face warms at the thought of Namjoon standing there watching him. "I missed seeing you like this." 

Yoongi squirms against the mattress as Namjoon comes closer with slow, deliberate steps. 

"Tell me your safewords." He's not even looking at Yoongi anymore, casually digging through the nightstand drawer. 

"Traffic lights." Yoongi shivers as Namjoon lets a bottle of lube drop against the mattress, along with the collar and the cuffs. 

"Go on." 

"Green—everything's good. Um, yellow means I need a break, and red means stop immediately." 

"Good boy." Namjoon leans over the bed, turning Yoongi's head with a firm hand on his jaw to press a kiss against his lips, and Yoongi can't suppress the tremor that rushes through him.

"Hey," Yoongi breathes when they part, leaning up to brush his nose against Namjoon's. "You should tell me yours, too. Just in case." 

Namjoon blinks down at him, softening. "My safewords?" 

Yoongi nods. "Even if we're not going very far, I want you to remember you can stop this, too. Your safety matters just as much as mine." 

Namjoon smiles and pushes the drawer closed with his hip, setting aside the list Yoongi had written for him ages ago, the pages creased and covered in notes. Namjoon probably knows it by heart, but it was always nearby when they would do a scene, its presence a comfort on its own. Yoongi should ask Namjoon to make his own list one day. He can't believe he hasn't already thought of that. 

"Green," Namjoon says, as he sits down on the edge of the bed, "means I'm okay. Yellow is for taking a break, and red means I need to stop." 

Yoongi sits up to press a kiss against the flushed pink of Namjoon's cheek, shifting to nip at his ear. "Good boy," he teases, and Namjoon snorts, swatting him away. 

"This may be casual, but don't press your luck." The glimmer in his eyes gives him away, his smile softening his serious, Dom tone. "Don't think I didn't notice you forgot one of yours." He takes Yoongi's wrist in his hand, lifting it to press a loose bell against his palm. "This okay?" he asks, searching Yoongi's eyes. "I couldn't find a ribbon, but I can grab a shoelace or something?" 

Yoongi's heart stutters in his chest, collapsing under the sheer amount of love that rushes through him. Namjoon's hand is so warm against his own, and he never wants to look away from that gentle, calculating gaze he'd once grown so reliant on: focused on him alone, attuned solely to his needs. 

"This is fine." He closes his fist around the bell, a lump in his throat. "Thank you, Sir." 

Namjoon kisses him again, softer, thumbs stroking over his cheeks. The cuffs are secured onto Yoongi's wrists shortly afterward, but they're not connected yet, his arms still free. That's when Namjoon brings out a reinforced strip of leather with heavy-gauge clasps on either end, a third attachment point coming up from the center. 

"This attaches the cuffs to the collar," Namjoon tells him. They usually discuss new things before starting a scene, but this was sudden, unplanned. The fact that Namjoon has stopped to explain is all Yoongi needs. "Are you okay with that? I'd have to keep your arms in front of you or above you anyway since I want you on your back—"

Even that feels good; Yoongi's limits being embraced as something Namjoon wants, rather than a shortcoming. 

"Yeah," he breathes. He has to respond as an equal here, so Namjoon knows he understands, wants it, and he's not just agreeing as a submissive. "Yeah, let's try it." 

The collar slides into place like a missing puzzle piece, and Yoongi's heart lurches. The cool kiss of the leather against his skin, the comfortable weight pressing just above his clavicles—it feels like coming home, in a way. An embrace from a long-lost friend. Yoongi’s breath leaves him in a shaky exhale, some part of him already letting go, giving in to this feeling. 

"Good boy." Namjoon's fingers comb through his hair, and Yoongi angles his head back, following the touch. It ends with a solid squeeze at the base of his skull, and then Namjoon pulls away, guiding Yoongi's hands up to rest near his shoulders. 

The connector is hooked to the collar first, followed by a firm tug as Namjoon tests the hold—or maybe it's just to tease him. It draws out a breathy moan either way, and Namjoon's lips twitch into a smile. 

The right cuff is hooked into place next, then the left, Namjoon's hand cradling his own as he lines up the clasp with the attachment point. And when Namjoon lets Yoongi go, he can't lower his arms. Can't extend them farther than his shoulders, an unyielding tension keeping them in place. It's a little claustrophobic, a surge of anxiety making him want to fight against it, to free his arms from their fetal curl and remember what it's like to move them freely. 

The fact that he can't even if he wants to is simultaneously terrifying and thrilling, the razor's edge between fear and arousal, and god he missed this. He missed this so fucking much. 

The tension drains out of him, his hands resting comfortably beneath his collarbone, forearms framing his chest. 

"Good?" Namjoon asks, searching his eyes, but the smile on his face is soft and knowing. 

Yoongi nods, pushing his voice to the surface. "Yes Sir." 

Namjoon pets his hair again, slow and soothing. "I'm not giving you any rules tonight, okay? You can talk to me freely. I just want you to be comfortable." 

Yoongi breathes out a laugh, dampening his lips. "I don't think—I can't talk much longer anyway." 

"Baby," Namjoon murmurs fondly. He cradles the back of Yoongi's head in one hand, the other encircling one of Yoongi's wrists. "I'm going to lay you back, okay?" 

Yoongi nods, his eyes sliding closed as Namjoon slowly lowers him onto the bed like he's something fragile, something cherished. Like he's so very, very loved. 

And he is. 

He feels it in the way Namjoon kisses him, heated but unhurried, his fingers trailing along Yoongi's shoulders, following the lines of muscle down his arms. It's not an exploratory touch, not one that's new or clumsy, mapping out uncharted territory. It's the touch of gentle fingertips on a faded photograph, soft and fond, tracing the details that were lost to time; it's expert hands cradling an instrument, finding each string without looking, knowing where to touch and exactly how hard. It's an intimate knowledge that can only come from being loved wholly and completely, and Yoongi feels it pulsing through him in waves of sunlight, lifting him higher and higher. 

He feels it as Namjoon kisses a path from his ankle to his inner thigh, pausing to mark the delicate skin there before switching to the other side. He feels it as Namjoon lets his breath puff teasingly over his cock as he works his way up, dragging his tongue from the dip of his navel to the center of his chest. And Yoongi couldn't cover himself even if he wanted to, his arms flexing against the hold of the cuffs as Namjoon worships him, pleasure simmering beneath his skin and stealing his voice. 

And when Namjoon slides two lubed fingers into him, he steals Yoongi's breath with a reverent press of his lips, and all Yoongi can do is pant against Namjoon's mouth. He's detached from himself, his body lost in the clouds. Nothing exists outside of this room, outside of their bed, where he's restrained and vulnerable and protected—this safe space they created for him to fall apart. 

Nothing exists aside from him and his Dom, his protector; his god for now, but not always. And the fact that he can only have this during scenes makes it sweeter. It's something for him to long for and crave, to savor that much more when he has it. Because it means even more to know that Namjoon is consenting to it, too; when they're like this—safewords established and boundaries set, a scene in progress whether it's casual or not—it's because Namjoon has agreed to be his everything. Wants to be his everything, even if it's just for a few precious moments. 

Namjoon brings him close with fingering alone, massaging his prostate until he's leaking precome all over his belly, his every breath punctuated by broken whimpers. It's only then that Namjoon starts pushing into him, slow and easy. Yoongi doesn't know when he removed his clothes, only realizes they're gone when Namjoon is fully pressed against him, skin against heated skin. 

It's familiar, the feeling of Namjoon inside him, but it's intensified now by the cuffs and the lack of mobility. The collar. Every touch feels brand new, his body raw and sensitive, the gentle swivel of Namjoon's hips igniting fireworks in his chest. And as Namjoon builds up speed, fucking into him harder and forcing rhythmic moans out of Yoongi's throat, there's nothing Yoongi can do but surrender to it. He tightens his legs around Namjoon's waist, holding him the way his arms long to, blunt nails pressing hard into his palms, the bell slippery with sweat. 

They can barely kiss, gasping lips hovering against each other, the sweetest moans slipping from Namjoon's mouth into Yoongi's. And that's what pushes Yoongi toward the edge: the vulnerability, the fragility he never allowed himself to notice. The way Namjoon's breath catches and shudders, his rhythm faltering as he gets close, the arms caging Yoongi in beginning to tremble. 

When Yoongi comes, it's with the shape of words on his lips that he doesn't have the voice for. Words he once thought he'd never say, but now has the privilege of saying whenever he wants: every night, every morning as he and Namjoon meet at the patio table to drink their shitty coffee from matching, eco-friendly cups. 

Namjoon follows him over the edge, shuddering as he collapses in a sweaty heap at Yoongi's side, already searching his face, checking in. He reaches clumsily for the clasp connecting the cuffs to the collar, giggling as his fingers slip. 

"Just a sec," he says, "I've got you." 

Yoongi hums contentedly, shifting closer. He wants to tell Namjoon he's not in a hurry. Wants to tell him he feels safe, comfortable, and so fucking good. And as he watches Namjoon, exhausted and blissed out, hair plastered to his forehead and skin shimmering with sweat, Yoongi wants to tell him how beautiful he is.

And he will. He'll tell Namjoon all of those things. He'll tell him he loves him as soon as he has the voice for it, no longer afraid that Namjoon won't say it back. 

It's surreal—being here after everything. Surreal to find himself sitting in the same room exactly one year later, wiping sweaty palms on his slacks as the show shifts its focus to the fan awards. 

So much has changed since the last time Yoongi sat here with two people he was too afraid to let himself acknowledge as friends, too insecure to realize he was lying to himself. This year, their table is full—Jimin and Taehyung are here, as always, along with Jungkook, and between them sit Jin and Hoseok, who insisted on flying out in support. And by Yoongi's side is Namjoon, who seeks out his hand under the table as the host lists off the nominees for Fan Favorite Dom. 

Yoongi didn't expect to be nominated. He tells himself that every year, even though he always took the nominations in stride, never truly shocked by any of them. But this one was different. 

Because it comes on the heels of Yoongi's first video bottoming as a Dom, which came after his return to social media with the video for his fans. He'd asked if they were interested in him trying new things in porn, and the response seemed to be that everyone was overwhelmingly interested. 

He still had plenty of people to block, but the way absolute strangers supported him made it bearable. It took a lot of effort to focus on the positive, to ignore the cruel words hidden behind masks of anonymity—maybe it always will—but it was worth it. 

The response to the porn video, when it was posted, was different than anything he'd ever imagined. 

There were the usual comments, of course—the generic "HOTT" and "im so hard from this"—but there were different ones, too. A kind he's never seen before. Comments that were a full paragraph instead of just a horny sentence or two: about how brave he is; how it's probably strange to feel inspired by porn, of all things, but the commenter is a survivor, too; how obvious it is now that he's enjoying himself again, and how good it is to see. 

Yoongi's always locked himself away to drink and read comments as some kind of self-sabotage. He's never, ever been in a position where he could pull up the comments to feel good about himself, to feel seen, oddly emotional over the heartfelt words strangers took the time to write out under a video called 'Twink Dom Suga forces bound sub to rail him until satisfied xxx hardcore BDSM electrostim'. 

A few people have asked about the lucky Dom Yoongi trusted enough to sub for in private, but Yoongi hasn't responded. Not yet. 

"And the winner of this year's Fan Favorite Dom award is…" The host grins as they break the seal on the envelope. "No surprise to anyone—SUGA!" 

Everyone is clapping and nodding as if they really had expected this, and Yoongi can only sit there, dumbfounded, as Namjoon nudges his shoulder and urges him to head to the stage. And Yoongi goes, staggering on shaking legs, overwhelmed as he takes the trophy in his hands.

It's no different than the ones he's received in the past, but it feels a little heavier, a little more meaningful, the metal cool through the fabric of his shirt as he clutches it to his chest. 

"Um," he manages as he positions himself in front of the microphone. The conference room is big and crowded, the lights low, but Yoongi can still make out all the faces that are turned his way. "So… I wasn't expecting this, actually." 

The crowd chuckles obligingly, and Yoongi plows forward. "I didn't exactly prepare anything, but…" His eyes land on Namjoon, and he smiles to himself. "Since I have this platform, I suppose I should use it for good. Everyone voted for me specifically to hear my thoughts on the way we're killing the planet, right?" 

He can pick up on Namjoon's laughter above everyone else's, loud and distinct, his head in his hands. Yoongi can imagine how red his face must be, and he wishes he could see it. 

When the laughter dies down, Yoongi goes on, "No, but seriously… I, um—I had a rough year. So this is…" He pauses, looking down at his trophy. It's an honor, despite his own voice in the back of his head reminding him that this is a porn award, 'not the Nobel Peace Prize'. "This represents a lot to me, I guess. A few months ago, I imagined that I'd be standing here at all. I mean, I literally wouldn't be if it wasn't for kink-positive mental health care, so… I guess I'm going to champion a cause after all. My past self is cringing." He breathes out a nervous laugh, the crowd laughing with him. Some part of him is still cringing, but this doesn't seem as embarrassing as it once did. If he can spare anyone the pain he suffered, it's worth looking a bit silly. 

"For a long time, I thought it was normal to hide parts of myself from counselors, to accept their judgment and blame myself for the things I've experienced. It took a long time for me to realize how fucked up that was, and how important it is to have mental health care that's sympathetic to people in our industry. Because shit happens to us too, and we should never be made to believe that we deserve it because of our jobs." 

He twists his hands around the award, hot and slippery with sweat. Shit like this will always make him nervous, he supposes, but there's nothing wrong with that. He has the tools to keep moving forward, and a big part of that is the six smiling faces back at his table, nodding at him encouragingly. Jimin, Yoongi notices belatedly, has his phone up and seems to be filming. 

Yoongi breathes out a laugh, shaking his head. "It's also important, I think, for us to surround ourselves with people who understand and support us. Even if it's just a small, trusted friend group that you can be open with. And I'm so fucking lucky to have that. So—thanks to my friends, my counselor, and my boyfriend who never gave up on me." 

He raises the trophy in acknowledgment as the crowd cheers, his heart racing as he steps off the stage. 

He did it. 

There may be people rolling their eyes at him, the second-hand embarrassment forcing them to leave the room, but he's surprised to find that he doesn't care. This is too important, means too much to him. He earned this moment. If someone doesn't want to hear him talk again next year, they'll just have to win.

That's what Yoongi did, after all. 

But it doesn't matter if he's ever nominated again. The trophy in his hands is one he'll make sure to display, one that's a little more significant than all the others. 

As he starts making his way back to the table, Namjoon stands, grinning broadly, and fuck it—Yoongi runs. Namjoon opens his arms just in time for Yoongi to launch himself into them, and he feels like he's in a movie, a dream, as Namjoon spins with the momentum. 

"I'm so proud of you," Namjoon murmurs, lips brushing against Yoongi's ear as he gently lowers him to the floor. The warmth of his voice travels through Yoongi like butterflies, lighting him up from the inside, glowing in his chest. 

He can't help but angle his head for a kiss, keeping Namjoon close with a hand on the back of his head. Namjoon squeezes his waist, solid and reassuring, and this is the life Yoongi always wanted. It doesn't matter if he can't sub on camera if he can be submissive at home; it doesn't matter if he wins or loses as long as he has this unconditional support. 

Pictures of this will probably end up on the internet, but held tightly in Namjoon's arms, with his trophy clutched in one hand, Yoongi can't bring himself to care. 

"I have a gift for you," Namjoon says when they're back in their hotel room. 

Yoongi looks up from his trophy, which he'd been angling on the dresser so his name faces front. "A gift? What for?" 

"To celebrate." Namjoon pulls a thin, white jewelry box from his suitcase. "It's the least I can do for the Dom of the Year, right?" 

Yoongi's face warms. "Oh, stop. You didn't know I was going to win." 

"I had a feeling." Namjoon sits down on the end of the bed, loosening his tie with one hand. He ditched his jacket and untucked his shirt the moment they entered the room, and the Namjoon that sits before him now looks soft and comfortable, hair falling loosely around his face and framing eyes that are warm and inviting. Apparently taking Yoongi's silence for disbelief, he adds, "Or maybe I've just been wanting to give you something. Come here." 

Yoongi slides off his own jacket, draping it neatly over the small desk chair in the corner of their room before joining Namjoon. The mattress dips as he sits down beside him, their thighs pressing together through their slacks as Namjoon angles to hold the box between them. 

This close, Yoongi can see the pink flush over Namjoon's cheeks. 

"Um." Namjoon dampens his lips, his gaze falling to the box as he runs his thumb over the long edge. "I hope this isn't too forward, or, like, presumptuous, but…" 

It's too big to be a ring box, but Yoongi's heart squirms in his chest regardless, nerves crawling up his neck. 

"After that scene we did, I started thinking," Namjoon goes on. "If we're going to keep doing this, especially if it gets serious again, I want you to feel safe. And I want to do everything I can to keep you safe. So." He opens the box, the lid rocking back on its hinge, and he angles it so Yoongi can see the contents. 

Resting on a bed of black velvet is a bell. It's a little bigger than his last one, delicately detailed with swirling engravings in the metal. The bell itself is attached to a sturdy-looking rope chain, a little too thick to be dainty, but subtle and elegant all the same. The label at the top of the box declares it to be white gold, and suddenly Yoongi thinks he'd be less overwhelmed if Namjoon had given him a ring after all. 

The silence between them is heavy, significant somehow, and Yoongi's heart is in his throat when he gently lifts the bracelet from the box. He turns it in his hand, running his thumb over the clasp—it's unfamiliar, probably fucking expensive, and Yoongi hates that he'll need to ask how to open it. 

"This is… a little nontraditional. Um." Namjoon's voice cracks slightly, and Yoongi looks into his eyes. He isn't quite expecting to find Namjoon looking back at him, confident and unwavering despite the nerves coming through in his voice. Namjoon clears his throat, steeling himself, and presses on, "It's a lock," he explains. "I was thinking… kind of like a day collar. If you want. But I had two keys made, one for me and one for you—like a safeword, and you can keep it somewhere out of sight but easy to access in case you need it. Because if you want to do this, I don't want you to feel… You're still in control, Yoongi, okay? Always."

Yoongi's next breath comes in a little shallow, a little sharp, and he feels some part of himself trying to push words to the surface, trying to form a coherent thought in the overwhelming silence of his mind, slipping through his grasp like smoke. 

"Or we can just get the clasp replaced—that's okay, too," Namjoon rambles, and he's starting to look a little unsure. "You're not obligated to accept this. I probably should have asked but I wanted to surprise you, and I—"

All Yoongi can do is kiss him. His lips press firmly against Namjoon's, his free hand gripping the front of Namjoon's shirt, and finally, he feels Namjoon get it. His body relaxes, melting against Yoongi's, his arms circling around Yoongi's waist and gathering him close. 

It's the last piece that was missing. The empty feeling around Yoongi's wrist had never quite gone away, but he couldn't make himself re-tie the old ribbon and go back to wearing it. That bell had served its purpose, represented a side of their relationship that no longer existed—filled with understanding and good intentions, but so easily broken. 

Yoongi pulls away from the kiss just enough to angle his head, pressing his forehead against Namjoon's as he offers him his wrist. He wants this. He wants to belong to Namjoon, to have a piece of armor locked in place by Namjoon's hand, something that embodies Namjoon's love and care for him. 

Namjoon unbuttons Yoongi's cuff, gentle fingers brushing against his skin as the sleeve is rolled back. He's still wearing more clothes than he probably ever has in front of Namjoon, but somehow this still feels like something private, intimate. Namjoon lifts Yoongi's hand, turning it to press a kiss to the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist, and Yoongi's heart is racing, fluttering, burning in his cheeks. 

Namjoon lets him go and shifts his weight enough to reach into his pocket, fishing out a key. It looks more like an Allen wrench than anything; a small, thin version of the kind that comes with furniture that needs assembly. 

"Some people make a formal ceremony out of this," Namjoon explains as he opens the clasp, "with a contract and a firm set of rules. But I guess I just see it as my promise to you: To always consider your well-being. To protect you. To do everything in my power to make you feel safe, supported, and loved." 

The chain is draped over Yoongi's trembling wrist, but Namjoon doesn't lock it—not yet. He pulls back just enough so they can look at each other, and Yoongi is surprised by the blur of tears he finds himself blinking away. 

"I love you," Namjoon tells him. "I'm not binding you to a set of rules. I want our relationship to grow and change the way it always has, for us to grow independently as much as we grow together. By accepting this, you owe me nothing. Nothing has to change at all. All I'm giving you is my word. Is that okay?"

Yoongi nods shakily, swallowing down the lump in his throat. God, he wants that. More than anything. Some part of him has longed for a physical representation of his and Namjoon's relationship from the moment he saw Hoseok's day collar, but it never occurred to him that he had one all along. 

He wishes he could form words as beautiful as Namjoon's. He wishes he could promise to trust and obey him, to worship him. His voice still feels out of reach, stuck between shuddering breaths, but two words come more easily than any others: "Yes Sir." 

By Namjoon's answering smile and the emotional glimmer in his eyes, it seems like the message got through all the same. 

When Namjoon twists the lock into place, Yoongi doesn't feel like he's trapped. It feels like home, like love. 

Like freedom.