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Chapter Text

Yoongi was 17 when he first met Namjoon. The college dorm was bustling with the energy of new students—backpacks slung carelessly, laughter echoing through the hallways, and the scent of fresh textbooks mixed with nervous excitement. Yoongi felt like a small, shy rabbit in a den of wolves. He was assigned as Namjoon’s roommate, a guy senior to him by 2 years. “You’re Namjoon?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. Namjoon, still gripping his iced Americano, nods and smiles.“You’re my new roommate?” he asked, voice smooth like warm coffee. “Damn. They didn’t tell me I was getting a baby bunny.” Yoongi blinked, ears turning red. “I’m not a bunny…” Namjoon stepped closer, gaze dropping to the oversized hoodie Yoongi was half-drowning in. “Could’ve fooled me.” Yoongi had no idea what to say to that. Yoongi nods quickly, steps aside, and lets Namjoon in. Namjoon steps into their shared room and glances around. One bed’s already made—neatly tucked sheets, a pastel pink pillow, and a stuffed bunny placed right in the center. Cute. Very cute. “You took the window side,” Namjoon says as he drops his bag. “Good choice. Morning sun’s kind of nice.” “I… I didn’t mean to take it first. I can switch—” Namjoon waves him off. “Nah, it’s yours now. Besides, I think the bunny’s claimed it.” Yoongi flushes. “Oh. That’s… Mallow. I’ve had him since third grade.” Namjoon grins, tossing his hoodie on his bed. “I’ll try not to make him jealous.” Yoongi makes a tiny sound that might be a laugh—or a squeak—and Namjoon already knows: this semester’s going to be fun. The other boy was tall—over six feet—with broad shoulders and an easy confidence that made Yoongi’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand. Namjoon had a calm presence, the kind that filled the room without speaking loudly. Their first conversations were hesitant, Yoongi’s soft voice often trailing off as he tried to keep up with Namjoon’s quick wit and deep thoughts. “You’re quiet,” Namjoon observed that evening as they unpacked. “I’m just shy,” Yoongi admitted, tucking a strand of his shoulder-length blonde hair behind his ear. Namjoon smirked. “You’re adorable when you’re nervous.” Yoongi flushed. He’d never been called that before. Days passed, and they settled into a rhythm. Yoongi found comfort in Namjoon’s steady companionship. But there was something about the other boy’s eyes—sharp, calculating, with a wild glint that didn’t quite match the gentle smile.

Yoongi is soft-spoken, painfully shy, and jumps a little every time Namjoon says his name.
He studies quietly, reads fantasy novels in bed, and wears oversized sweaters that nearly swallow his hands. His idea of “living dangerously” is staying up past midnight to organize his sticker collection.
Namjoon is his opposite in every way—tall, confident, charming with an easy laugh. He talks with his hands, leaves his socks everywhere, and doesn’t hesitate to flirt like it’s second nature.

“Are you always this shy?” he asks one night as they sit side by side on the floor eating instant ramen.

Yoongi fidgets with his chopsticks. “I just… don’t really talk much.”

Namjoon leans closer, chin propped on his hand. “You should. You’ve got a cute voice.”

Yoongi nearly chokes on his noodles.

Namjoon laughs, then gently pats his back. “Relax. I’m only half teasing.”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for the rest of the meal—but Namjoon catches him smiling into his bowl.

------

Over the weeks, Namjoon makes it his personal mission to make Yoongi feel comfortable.
He learns Yoongi’s favorite snacks (strawberry milk and honey butter chips), his go-to study music (piano instrumentals), and that he says sorry way too much.
“Baby, you don’t have to apologize for breathing,” Namjoon says one morning as Yoongi mumbles a flustered “sorry” for bumping into him by the fridge.
“I’m not used to sharing space,” Yoongi replies quietly.
Namjoon taps his knuckle under Yoongi’s chin. “Then get used to me, sweetheart.”
Yoongi turns red all the way to his ears.
Namjoon walks away, smirking.

They fell into a rhythm quickly. Yoongi studied quietly at the desk, always nibbling the end of his pen; Namjoon sprawled on the bed behind him, legs open, watching him with a lazy kind of curiosity.
“You always this focused, little bunny?” Namjoon drawled one afternoon, voice low. “It’s kinda hot.”
Yoongi’s pen slipped from his mouth. “W-What?”

Namjoon chuckled, the bed creaking as he stood. “You’re so jumpy. It’s cute.”

He came over, leaned down beside Yoongi’s chair, one hand braced on the backrest. Yoongi could feel his breath on his cheek.
“You always make that face when you’re confused? All flushed and wide-eyed like you’re in trouble?”

Yoongi shrank into his hoodie. “You say weird things.”

Namjoon grinned. “That wasn’t a no.”

Namjoon flirted like it was his native language—confident, teasing, and always just this side of too much. He’d whisper things when they passed in the hallway or lean over Yoongi’s shoulder during study sessions, voice curling into his ear.

“Need help, baby?” he’d murmur. “I’m good with my hands.”

Or, “You look so innocent when you bite your lip like that. Almost makes me feel bad.”
Almost.
Yoongi would hide his face, mumble nonsense, and Namjoon would laugh, every time.
But Namjoon also brought him warm tea when he got sick, lent him his hoodie during a storm, and let Yoongi sleep on his bed when his own sheets were in the wash.
He was bold. A little touchy. But never too much.
Not for Yoongi.
One night, Yoongi fell asleep with his head in Namjoon’s lap while they were watching a movie.
Namjoon didn’t move for two hours.
He just stared down at the boy in his lap, one hand stroking idly through soft black hair.

“You really are trouble, huh?” he whispered, almost to himself. “Little, innocent trouble.”

Yoongi stirred but didn’t wake.
Namjoon smiled.
Not yet, then.
But maybe soon.

------

Yoongi stood just outside the amusement park entrance, nervously checking his reflection in the black screen of his phone. His hoodie felt too big, his jeans too tight, and his heart was hammering in his chest.
“We’re by the big fountain. Don’t be nervous, baby.”
Namjoon's message sat unread for the third time as Yoongi stared at the bubbling water up ahead. He’d known Namjoon for a few months now—his charming roommate in their shared space who slowly became someone Yoongi trusted. Now Namjoon had invited him to meet his closest friends, and all of them together, no less.
Taking a deep breath, Yoongi shuffled forward, chewing his lip as he spotted them: six tall, confident guys clustered around the fountain, laughing and nudging each other. Even from here, they looked intimidatingly cool.

Namjoon saw him first, waving with a wide smile. “Yoongi! Over here!”

Yoongi’s steps faltered slightly before he reached them, eyes cast downward as he gave a small, awkward bow. “H-Hi…”

“There he is!” Seokjin beamed, immediately stepping forward. “You’re cuter than the pictures, wow.”

“Pictures?” Yoongi whispered, blinking up at Namjoon.

Namjoon grinned and draped an arm over his shoulder casually. “What, you thought I didn’t show you off?”

“Oh my god, he’s blushing already,” Taehyung said, eyes gleaming. “That took, like, five seconds.”

Yoongi’s ears burned as he ducked his head, hiding half behind Namjoon. “I-I’m not blushing…”

“You so are,” Hoseok sing-songed. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re just messing with you.”

“But only a little,” Jimin added, his tone playful as he gave Yoongi a once-over. “You’re even smaller in person. That’s not a complaint.”

“I-I’m not that small…” Yoongi muttered, crossing his arms protectively over his chest.

Jungkook chuckled, eyes crinkling. “You’re pocket-sized, kitty. That’s a good thing.”

Namjoon gave Yoongi’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “They’re just trying to fluster you. It means they like you.”

“You all planned this,” Yoongi mumbled.

“Busted,” Seokjin smirked.
Despite the teasing, they quickly fell into a rhythm—moving together as a group toward the food stalls. Seokjin bought everyone churros, insisting Yoongi take the one with the most sugar on it. Hoseok offered him water every five minutes like he was fragile, and Jimin kept gently nudging Yoongi’s hand with his whenever they stood in line, just to see how many times it would make him flinch and go pink.
Yoongi, surprisingly, didn’t hate it.

“So, what’s your ride limit?” Jungkook asked, walking backwards to face him.
“Um… I’ve never been on anything taller than a Ferris wheel,” Yoongi admitted.
Taehyung gasped, scandalized. “You’re joking.”
“W-Well, no, I—my hometown didn’t have big rides.”
“Oh, we have to change that,” Hoseok said with a gleam in his eye.
“Not today,” Namjoon interjected smoothly. “We go at his pace.”
Yoongi looked up at him gratefully.
“But next time,” Seokjin chimed in with a wink, “we’re dragging you onto the biggest coaster here.”
“Only if you hold my hand,” Yoongi said before he could think—then immediately slapped a hand over his mouth, horrified.
There was a collective pause. Then

“*Oh?*” Jimin grinned, eyes practically sparkling. “That was bold, baby.”

“I-I didn’t mean—!”

“No take-backs,” Jungkook said cheerfully. “You’ve officially offered hand-holding. That’s a contract.”

“Signed in churro sugar,” Hoseok added.

Yoongi groaned and covered his face, but when Namjoon gently pulled his hands down, his smile was warm and real.

“You’re doing great, Yoongi.”
And for the first time that afternoon, Yoongi believed him.

------

Yoongi had only just gotten used to Namjoon’s brand of teasing. That slow, deliberate flirtation, the subtle touches, the whispers close to his ear that made him fumble his words for the next five minutes.
He hadn’t expected to be surrounded by five more versions of it.

“Yoongi, they're here” Namjoon said one Friday night as the dorm room filled with laughter, snacks, and limbs sprawling over every piece of furniture. “Be gentle with him.”
“Gentle?” Seokjin, the oldest and most handsome, grinned. “He looks like he’d cry if someone touched his knee.”
Jungkook leaned over the back of the couch, grinning down at Yoongi. “Wanna test that theory?”
Yoongi immediately tucked his knees under himself like a startled rabbit, cheeks flushing deep pink.
“Oh my god,” Jimin cooed, plopping down right beside him and bumping shoulders. “You’re adorable. How does Namjoon live with you without devouring you?”
Namjoon smirked from where he was sitting on his desk chair. “It’s not easy.”
Yoongi let out a soft sound—something between a whimper and a groan—and buried his face in the sleeve of his oversized hoodie.
“He squeaks,” Taehyung said in awe, crouching down in front of Yoongi like he’d just discovered a rare species. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Hoseok had settled cross-legged on the bed, watching all of it with gleaming eyes. “Yah, hyung. You didn’t tell us your roommate was this precious. I would've brought whipped cream.”
“What?!” Yoongi practically shouted, peeking up in horror.
“Relax,” Hoseok winked. “I just meant… for strawberries. Or knees. Depending on the mood.”

Namjoon chuckled. “They’re being good, actually. This is them holding back.”

Yoongi groaned into his hands. “Why are you all like this? Y'all weren't speaking so much the other day”
“Because you’re fun to tease,” Jimin said, resting his chin on Yoongi’s shoulder now. His hand was dangerously close to Yoongi’s thigh. “You’re like a soft little marshmallow who turns pink if we breathe on you.”
“Don’t say breathe on him,” Taehyung said with a grin. “Now I wanna try.”
He leaned in, warm breath ghosting over Yoongi’s neck.
Yoongi jumped and let out a tiny, involuntary noise. The room howled with laughter.
“Okay, okay,” Seokjin said through his laughter. “Leave him alone. We don’t want the poor kid to pass out from blushing too hard.”
Yoongi’s face was already the color of a ripe tomato. Namjoon finally stood, walked over, and settled behind the couch, one arm casually draping across the back, fingers brushing Yoongi’s hair.

“Bunny’s a little shy,” he murmured with a smile. “But he’s tougher than he looks.”
“Is that so?” Jungkook asked, sitting on the floor at Yoongi’s feet, grinning up at him. “Guess we’ll have to test his limits.”
“Or his stamina,” Hoseok added helpfully.
Yoongi made a helpless, garbled sound.
Jimin leaned in closer, voice a soft tease. “Are we too much for you, baby?”
“Y-Yes,” Yoongi croaked.
“Don’t worry,” Namjoon said, thumb brushing behind Yoongi’s ear. “They’ll behave. Eventually.”
“Not if he keeps being this cute,” Taehyung said, now lounging across Yoongi’s other side, knee pressed to his thigh.
“You're lucky you're younger,” Seokjin added with a smirk. “It makes all this filth feel slightly illegal. In a fun way.”
Namjoon narrowed his eyes. “Slightly?”
“Okay, totally illegal. But if he keeps looking at us like that, I might need a lawyer.”
Yoongi, who definitely wasn’t looking at them in any way except terrified, squeaked again.
Hoseok leaned over from the bed, chin in hand. “God, Joon. I thought you were exaggerating. But he really is perfect.”
Namjoon just smiled, hand still stroking Yoongi’s hair gently.

“I wasn’t exaggerating.”
By the end of the night, Yoongi was a puddle of flustered exhaustion, curled under Namjoon’s hoodie, blinking sleepily as the others played Mario Kart.
“Did you survive?” Namjoon whispered against his temple.

Yoongi nodded slowly, cheeks still warm.
“You’re lucky I like you,” he murmured. “Your friends are scary.”
Namjoon chuckled. “You’ll get used to them.”
“…I think I already did.”
Namjoon smiled to himself and pulled Yoongi closer.
“Good. You’re ours now.”

------

Yoongi had no idea how the night turned into this. One minute, they were piled on Namjoon’s bed watching a movie. The next, Jimin was curled around him from behind, lips brushing his ear, whispering filth like it was the most casual thing in the world.

“You keep squirming, baby,” Jimin purred, fingers splayed across Yoongi’s tummy, thumb grazing under the hem of his hoodie. “Can’t help it, huh?”
Yoongi whimpered, soft and high, as Jimin’s hand slid up a little further — fingertips ghosting across skin. “I-I’m not—!”
“Oh, he stutters,” Hoseok groaned from the foot of the bed. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

“Big problem,” Jungkook agreed, palming himself lazily through his sweats. “Look at him. He doesn’t even know what we’re doing to him yet.”

“I do!” Yoongi blurted, trying to sit up — but Seokjin caught his wrist and pulled him gently back down onto his lap.

“You think you do,” Seokjin murmured, pulling Yoongi to straddle him. “But your hips say otherwise.”
Yoongi gasped as his thighs fell on either side of Seokjin’s legs, the older man holding his waist with steady, warm hands. Behind him, Namjoon’s voice rumbled low.

“You’re hard, baby.”
Yoongi’s eyes went wide, hands flying to cover himself — but Namjoon caught his wrists and pinned them to the bed.
“Don’t hide,” he whispered into Yoongi’s neck. “You’re the one who wore those little shorts around six alp- guys. You wanted the attention.”
Yoongi shook his head, but he was trembling now — caught between Seokjin’s strong thighs, Namjoon’s grip, and Jimin still pressed flush against his back, nosing at his neck.
“God,” Taehyung muttered from the side, dragging his hand over his face. “Look at his nipples.”
Yoongi blinked down and choked — his hoodie had ridden up, exposing soft skin and the bare peaks of his chest, tight and flushed pink. Jimin’s hands slid up slowly, thumbs brushing the buds in slow, deliberate circles.
“Sensitive,” Jimin whispered. “Do they hurt, baby?”

Yoongi shuddered. “Y-Yes…”

“Good.”
Without warning, Jimin pinched both at once.
Yoongi cried out, arching helplessly in Seokjin’s lap.
The eldest hissed under his breath, grinding up against the soft weight on top of him. “Fuck, you’re so responsive.”
Namjoon chuckled darkly. “Told you he’s a little pillow prince.”
Hoseok leaned forward, sliding a hand beneath Yoongi’s hoodie to toy with his stomach. “Can I bite his tummy?”

Yoongi shook his head wildly, already breathless. “Y-You can’t all—!”
“We can,” Jungkook said with a grin, kneeling beside the bed now. “And we will. You’re the one who sat on hyung’s lap like a little cock drunk doll. That’s permission enough.”

“I didn’t mean—!” Yoongi gasped again as Seokjin’s hands grabbed both his cheeks, squeezing gently. The friction of denim and sweatpants had his hips twitching forward.

“Oh?” Jin smirked. “Then why’s your pretty little dick rubbing against me like it wants more?”

“Bunny’s humping,” Jungkook said with a smirk. “I think he likes being used.”
Namjoon suddenly pulled the hoodie all the way off, revealing Yoongi’s flushed chest. The boy let out a high whine and tried to cover himself again — only for Jimin to grab both wrists and pin them above his head.

“Oh no, no, baby,” Jimin crooned. “You wanted to play? You show the whole table.”
“Such a good toy,” Hoseok whispered, dipping down to kiss along Yoongi’s lower belly. His lips were soft, but his teeth scraped just enough to make Yoongi gasp.

Seokjin started rocking beneath him, dragging his hips in slow, grinding thrusts.

Yoongi sobbed softly, completely red and panting.
“Is he crying?” Taehyung asked, brushing Yoongi’s cheek. “Sweet little thing. Let me taste.”

He leaned in, licking softly at the corner of Yoongi’s lips.

Yoongi whined, struggling gently in Jimin’s grip, his body overstimulated but buzzing with heat.

“You wanna cum, doll?” Namjoon asked against his ear. “Just from being teased? From us touching you? like a cat in heat?”

Yoongi nodded desperately. “P-Please—”

Seokjin’s hands moved to Yoongi’s ass again, grinding him down harder, while Jimin kissed his neck, biting lightly. Hoseok was sucking bruises into his hip. Jungkook had his fingers under the waistband of his shorts now, stroking over soaked cotton.

“Next time we eat him,” Jungkook muttered. “I’m not letting this mouth go to waste.”

Namjoon growled. “Not yet. He’ll break too soon.”

Yoongi’s head was spinning. He was so close, hips twitching, thighs trembling.

“I-I can’t—!”

“Let go, baby,” Namjoon whispered. “Be good and show hyung what a mess you are.”

Yoongi came with a breathless sob, body jerking as his hips rutted helplessly into Seokjin’s lap.

The room fell into a stunned silence, broken only by Yoongi’s soft panting.

“…Holy shit,” Taehyung whispered.

Namjoon ran a hand over Yoongi’s back, gentle now. “You okay, baby?”

Yoongi nodded slowly, still dazed. “Mhm…”

Jimin kissed his cheek. “That was so hot.”

“You came untouched,” Jungkook grinned. “You’re gonna be fun to ruin.”

Namjoon laughed softly. “Next round, we bring toys.”

Yoongi blinked up at him, dazed, flushed, still trembling.

God help him — he wanted it. Little did he know what was coming for him next

Chapter Text

It started with a silence that was too loud.

The six of them were gathered in the living room of their off-campus house—beer bottles half-full, music playing low, but not a single one of them could focus on anything except the echo of Yoongi’s moans still ringing in their heads.

“Anyone else still hard?” Jungkook finally asked, voice low, dark.

“Still?” Hoseok snorted. “I never stopped.”

Namjoon was leaned back on the couch, one arm thrown over the backrest, his other hand rubbing at his jaw like he was trying to stay calm.

“He’s not even trying,” Namjoon muttered. “He’s just…like that. That sweet, soft voice. The way he squirms when we get close. He doesn’t even know what he does to us.”

Seokjin was nursing his drink, shirt unbuttoned, a flush still high on his chest. “He’s got the tiniest waist I’ve ever seen. Did you see how it dips when he breathes hard?”
Taehyung groaned and flopped onto the rug. “The way he cried? Fuck, I almost lost it. He made that little whimper when Jin hyung grabbed his ass—I thought I was gonna cum untouched.”
“I did,” Jimin said unapologetically. “I had to go jack off in the bathroom like a fucking teenager.”
Jungkook laughed, dark and breathless. “He squeaked when I touched his hip. Like a fucking chew toy. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“I want to see him gag on my fingers,” Hoseok said, licking his lips slowly. “Just my fingers first. I bet his throat is so tight.”
Taehyung raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to start with fingers?”

“Okay,” Hoseok smirked, “maybe my tongue. He’s got a fixation, I can see it. Mouth always parted. Always biting his lip.”

Namjoon’s voice cut through, low and firm. “We need to take our time with him.”

“Oh, we will,” Seokjin said, eyes sharp. “But I want him drooling, trembling, overstimulated before we even fuck him. I want him to beg.”

“He’d do it,” Jimin said. “He just needs the right push. He already melts when any of us call him baby.”

“I called him doll once,” Jungkook muttered. “And he fucking shivered.”

Namjoon chuckled. “Because he wants it. He wants to be ruined. He just doesn’t know how to ask for it.”

“He’s so fucking pretty,” Taehyung murmured, almost in awe. “That soft little tummy, those flushed cheeks, the way he grinds without even meaning to.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “He looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Just taking it. Letting us play with him.”

“I wanna see him milked,” Hoseok said suddenly. “I bet he’d cry from how good it feels. We don’t even have to touch his cock—just play with his nipples and overstimulate him until he leaking milk. Until he breaks.”

“Oh fuck,” Jimin whispered. “I want that too.”

“Slow,” Namjoon said again, eyes dark. “He’s too sweet to rush. We have to make sure he wants it. Poor baby is just a virgin”.

“He wants it,” Seokjin said. “That baby whined when I called him ‘hyung’s good little slut.’”

Taehyung grinned. “Because he is.”
“God,” Jungkook groaned, flopping back against the couch. “I want to be the first one to make him cum from sucking him. Bet he’s never even had anyone on their knees for him.”
“He’d lose it,” Jimin agreed. “I’ll hold his hands so he doesn’t float away.”
Namjoon finally stood, his body tense like he’d been holding back for days.
“We give him time. Let him come to us slowly. But when he does…” His voice dropped to a growl. “We make him ours. No one else touches him.”
“Agreed,” Seokjin said. “He’s too good to share outside of us.”
“Six alphas,” Taehyung murmured with a grin. “One shy little baby boy. One shy little omega.”

Jungkook chuckled. “He’s not gonna survive us.”

Hoseok stood, stretching his arms over his head. “We’ll make sure he loves every second of it.”

Namjoon looked around at all of them, hungry, aching, obsessed.

Then he smirked.

“We’re going to ruin him.”

Namjoon took a slow sip of his drink, then said quietly, “You know what I’ve been thinking about?”

All heads turned toward him.
“I want to turn him into hybrid first” Namjoon continued, voice low and dark. “See that fluffy little bunny tail, twitching while we play with him. Soft cat ears flicking when he’s nervous. I’ve been thinking of it ever since I first met him”.
Seokjin groaned, head falling back. “Don’t start. He’d look so good like that. All animal instincts, all heat.”

“He’d smell like sweetness and slick,” Hoseok added, grinning. “We wouldn’t even have to ask. His body would beg.”
“Little omega pup,” Jimin cooed. “He doesn’t even know he’s meant for us.”
Taehyung licked his lips. “Imagine him trembling in a nest we built. Whimpering with those big glassy eyes and ears pinned back, begging for knots.”
“Covered in our scent,” Jungkook said darkly. “Marked up, dripping, perfect.”
Namjoon exhaled slowly, eyes glowing with need. “Once he turns, he won’t be able to resist us.”
“We’ll take care of him,” Jin said with a smirk. “Feed him, knot him, fill him—until the prey forgets he was ever human.”
"We’ll make him ours,” Jungkook finished.
And the room fell silent again.

Heavy with longing.
Heavy with hunger.

Heavy with plans.

------

The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sweet — cinnamon, maybe. Yoongi’s fingers trembled as Namjoon handed him the glass, amber liquid shimmering under the soft light.

“Just a little something to help you relax,” Namjoon said smoothly, eyes watching him with calm control.

Yoongi hesitated, eyes flicking nervously to the rim of the glass. “I—I don’t usually drink…” His voice was small, uncertain.

Namjoon smiled, patient and coaxing. “It’s okay. Just trust me, alright?”

The warmth of the drink spread quickly as Yoongi swallowed, bitter and unfamiliar but oddly comforting. He blinked, suddenly aware of how heavy his limbs felt, as if gravity was pulling him deeper into the chair.

Namjoon moved closer, voice soft like a lullaby. “Just breathe. You’re safe.”

A slow heat bloomed behind Yoongi’s eyelids, a gentle wave washing over his senses. The room tilted just slightly, colors blurring at the edges. He swallowed again, throat dry and fluttering.

“Namjoon…” His voice slurred slightly, confusion flickering in his chest. “I feel… weird.”

“Good,” Namjoon said, his fingers brushing Yoongi’s cheek, warm and steady. “Relax into it.”

Yoongi’s breath came slower, heavy like sinking into a warm bath. The tight knot of anxiety that usually lived beneath his ribs loosened, unraveling thread by thread. His ears twitched, catching the low hum of Namjoon’s voice like a tether pulling him closer.

The chair beneath him felt softer, his body melting into the cushions. His hands rested limply in his lap, and the cuff around his wrist felt distant, unimportant.

“Do you trust me?” Namjoon asked quietly, voice a balm.

Yoongi tried to nod but his head lolled slightly to the side. “I… I want to.”

Namjoon smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from Yoongi’s forehead. His fingertips left a trail of heat that made Yoongi shiver despite the warmth flowing through him.

“Good boy,” Namjoon whispered.

The edges of Yoongi’s vision darkened, but Namjoon’s voice was a steady beacon in the haze.

“Just let go,” he murmured, hands gentle on Yoongi’s shoulders. “I’m right here.”

Yoongi’s eyelids fluttered, heavy as velvet curtains. The last coherent thought in his foggy mind was Namjoon’s hand, warm and steady, holding him close. The soft murmur of reassurance promised safety, even as the world slipped away.

The sharp snap of the cuffs closing around Yoongi’s wrists was the only sound he could focus on. His heart hammered, loud in his ears, as if it would burst through the restraints binding him to the cold backseat. The blindfold smothered his sight completely, leaving the world pitch black, a void that made every noise, every breath, every movement feel amplified and sinister.

“Stop struggling, baby,” a deep voice murmured low and close to his ear, rough with amusement. “We’re not going anywhere until you calm down.”

Yoongi’s body tensed, muscles rigid. “Let me go,” he hissed, voice shaking more with anger than courage. “I don’t— I don’t belong to you.”

Another chuckle. “That’s what makes this fun.” The voice, unmistakably Namjoon’s, brushed against his neck like a breath of fire, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine.

“Why are you doing this?” Yoongi spat, but his voice cracked halfway through. The blindfold pressed tighter as if in response. His breath caught.

“Because you need to learn,” came a gentler but still firm tone—Seokjin’s, smooth and practiced. “We’re taking you somewhere safe. Somewhere only we can protect you.”

As Seokjin started driving again. 

Yoongi scoffed, rebellion bubbling in his chest. Safe? Protected? The last thing he felt right now was safe. He could smell the faint scent of pine and wet asphalt through the narrow cracks around the blindfold. They were driving somewhere. Far. Remote. 

Suddenly, the vehicle jolted sharply, a hard turn throwing Yoongi’s restrained body against the seat. He bit back a cry, tasting blood in his mouth. The voices around him faded for a moment, replaced by the pounding of his own heart and the rushing of the night air whipping past unseen windows.

“Easy, baby,” Hoseok’s voice soothed, soft and warm. “You’ll get used to this.”

Yoongi clenched his jaw, fighting tears he refused to let fall. He was angry—furious even—that they’d done this without his consent. But beneath the anger was something more raw and confusing: a desperate need to belong, to be understood.

He couldn’t see anything.
The blindfold was soft velvet, tied snug behind his head. It darkened the world completely, heightening every sound—the panicked clink of the cuffs behind his back, the rustle of his clothes pushed aside, the low, appreciative chuckle from the front seat.

The car’s engine growled steadily beneath them, swallowing his frantic thoughts. Time seemed to stretch, minutes bleeding into hours as the darkness held him prisoner.

Then came Jimin’s voice, silky and teasing, “Look at you, trying to be so tough. It’s adorable.”

A hot blush burned behind his blindfold despite himself. “Don’t,” he snapped, voice hoarse.

“Can’t help it,” Jimin whispered, a breath tickling the shell of his ear.

“You’re doing so good, baby girl,” Namjoon’s voice was soft, indulgent, like syrup. “Look at you. All squirmy, and we haven’t even touched you yet.” Said Namjoon mocking Yoongi.
Yoongi whimpered softly, wrists flexing uselessly against the cold steel of the cuffs. He was kneeling sideways across the wide backseat, thighs spread slightly for balance, chest bare, nipples perked from the air conditioning and anticipation. His cock—hard, twitching thing between his thighs—tilted forward at every sound, desperate for direction, for contact.

Jungkook’s voice was closer, breath brushing Yoongi’s cheek. “He’s shaking. Think he wants us to help?”
“Oh, he wants it,” Jimin murmured from the passenger seat, amusement in his tone. “But he’s not gonna ask right baby?”

Yoongi shifted in the seat, clearly uncomfortable. “W-Where… where are we going?” he asked softly, eyes wide under the blindfold. His voice trembled just enough to betray the flutter in his chest. 
Yoongi bit his lip as he got ignored. His cock twitched anxiously beneath him, flicking once, twice, betraying his restlessness. The position made his back arch slightly, his rounded little ass up and on display, just the way they liked it.
Namjoon’s fingers slid beneath his chin suddenly, tipping his head up. “Use your words, princess.”
Yoongi’s lips parted, a soft moan slipping out before he managed a breathy, “P-please…”
“Please what?”

“Tell me where are we going? Don’t! Don’t touch me!!” Yoongi gasped, thighs clenching. “No- no your hands…”
A hand ghosted along his thigh—large, warm, barely there—and he jerked against the cuffs, a high whine bubbling in his throat.
“Poor bunny,” Jungkook cooed, finally cupping one of Yoongi’s thighs in a firm grip. “So sensitive back here in the dark. What if someone sees us?”
Yoongi’s breath hitched, hips twitching forward, chasing friction. His cheeks burned. He couldn’t see where they were. If his boyfriends were joking or not. That only made the pulsing between his legs worse.

He gasped when fingers brushed over the front of his panties— something Namjoon has got him into , stretched tight from how hard he was. Namjoon hissed in approval.
“Messy already?” he said, stroking the outline of Yoongi’s cock through the fabric. “We haven’t even opened your pretty mouth yet.”
Yoongi moaned, low and broken. He felt like he was floating, anchored only by their voices and the press of fingers against his needy, leaking cock.
“Let’s take our time,” Namjoon murmured to the others, dragging Yoongi’s panties down slowly, deliberately. “He’s got nowhere to run.”
Yoongi sniffled, eyes wide and glossy as he looked up only to find darkness in front of his eyes. His wrists ached from the cuffs, his voice trembling as he spoke. “W-Where are you taking me?” he whispered, barely able to keep the fear from cracking through.

“Is… is this some kind of prank? Please—if it is, it’s not funny.” His bottom lip quivered as he tried to make sense of the silence. “I don’t understand… I didn’t do anything.” His voice broke on the last word, shrinking back into the seat, dread curling tight in his stomach.

Yoongi’s breath hitched as Namjoon’s fingers traced slow circles over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, the warmth spreading beneath his trembling skin. Jungkook’s hand slid from his waist to brush teasingly along the curve of his hip, nails just barely grazing the sensitive spot behind his ear, making Yoongi shiver uncontrollably.

“Look at you, baby girl,” Namjoon murmured, voice low and smooth like silk. “So tense already, and we’re just touching love.”
Jungkook chuckled, thumb flicking lightly over Yoongi’s lower lip. “You’re going to be such a good little pet for us. So desperate for touch.”
Yoongi whimpered, the blindfold still wrapped tight around his eyes, his heart pounding fast and loud. Every feather-light touch sent sparks through his nerves, making his body ache for more.
Namjoon’s hand slipped under the waistband of Yoongi’s panties, fingers teasing just above the sensitive spot. “Tell us, princess—do you like being teased like this? Want us to stop?”
“No,” Yoongi gasped, voice shaky. “Please…  stop.”
Jungkook smiled against his neck, breath warm. “Good boy. We’re just having a little taste babe.”

Suddenly the car slowed, tires crunching over gravel. The atmosphere shifted; Yoongi sensed they had arrived. The door opened with a faint creak.

“Stay still,” Taehyung’s commanding tone ordered, rougher than usual.

“Hands down,” Jungkook added, voice low and steady.

Yoongi’s body was lifted with surprising gentleness despite the firm grip on his arms. His feet touched cold stone, the chill seeping through his thin socks.

The blindfold was removed in one swift motion.

Dim moonlight spilled over a sprawling mansion nestled in the woods—an imposing structure with tall windows and ivy crawling up its stone walls.

The cold air hit Yoongi’s skin like ice, his breath coming out in visible puffs.

“Welcome home, baby,” Namjoon’s voice was almost a growl now, filled with something dark and possessive.

Yoongi’s eyes darted around, searching for an escape, but the heavy restraints around his wrists reminded him of the futility.

He swallowed hard, heart pounding as the night swallowed him whole.
The heavy wooden door shut behind them with a muffled thud that echoed in the cavernous hall. The cold from outside lingered, biting at Yoongi’s exposed neck and wrists, now bare beneath the cuffs that still held him captive. His breath was ragged, lungs struggling for warmth in the chill air.

Namjoon’s fingers brushed along Yoongi’s jaw, tilting his head up gently but firmly. “Look at me,” he demanded, his dark eyes glinting in the half-light. Yoongi’s gaze flickered with defiance. “I’m not afraid of you,” he spat, voice trembling with both anger and something dangerously close to desperation.

“You should be,” Seokjin said from behind, his tone calm but laced with quiet menace. He stepped forward, trailing a hand down Yoongi’s shoulder, fingertips grazing bare skin.
A shiver ran through Yoongi, not from cold, but from the touch—electric and invasive. He tried to pull away, but the cuffs clinked softly as they prevented any real movement.
“You’re ours now,” Hoseok whispered close to his ear, voice velvet but heavy with promise. “No running. No fighting back that doesn’t please us.”
“Please us?” Yoongi’s voice cracked with bitter disbelief. “You think I’ll just—”
His protest was cut short by Jimin’s sharp fingers pinching the soft skin just above his wrist. The sudden sting made Yoongi gasp and jerk, his body instinctively arching in spite of the restraints.

“Too much attitude kitty” Jimin murmured, smiling cruelly. “You’re lucky we don’t punish you more.”

Taehyung’s hand slid over Yoongi’s chest, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over his collarbone. “Look at you, so fragile under all that fire.”

Yoongi’s cheeks burned scarlet. His heart slammed against his ribs like a wild thing trapped, torn between wanting to lash out and the strange pull these touches stirred within him.

“I hate this,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe,” Jungkook’s voice was low, almost soothing. “But you won’t say no to us for long.”

Namjoon’s grip tightened on Yoongi’s chin, tilting his face up once more. “You belong to us, baby. And soon you’ll know what that means.”

The room seemed to pulse around Yoongi, the weight of their gazes heavy on his skin. He fought the flush rising in his cheeks, the flutter in his chest, but his body betrayed him with every breath, every shiver.

“You’re scared,” Namjoon said softly, eyes never leaving his.

“No,” Yoongi spat, but his voice wavered.

“Look at you,” Seokjin cooed, sliding his hands down Yoongi’s torso, fingers brushing the waistband of his panties. “Trying to be brave, but your body tells the truth.”

A slow heat spread through Yoongi’s core at the touch, a helpless flush of warmth and want despite himself. His breath hitched, muscles tightening.

Namjoon leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper only for him. “We’re going to take care of you. Teach you. Make you ours.”

Yoongi’s pulse raced, terror and longing mingling in an unbearable cocktail. He was trapped—physically, yes, but also in something deeper, darker. And even as his rebellious heart screamed to run, a tiny, terrified part of him wondered if maybe… this was where he belonged.

The mansion’s heavy door slammed shut behind them, sealing the night—and Yoongi’s fate. His wrists throbbed against the cold metal cuffs, the leather straps biting into his skin where they bound him to the ornate chair in the dimly lit room. Shadows flickered across the walls, cast by the crackling fireplace that did little to chase away the chill.

Yoongi’s chest heaved, breath shallow and uneven. His blindfold had been ripped off minutes ago, but the darkness still clung to him like a second skin. His wide eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of escape, but the hard reality of the restraints and the his boyfriend’s looming presence crushed every hope.

Namjoon crouched in front of him, fingers curling under Yoongi’s chin to force his gaze upward. His eyes held a storm—dark, possessive, unwavering.

“Look at me,” Namjoon’s voice was low, commanding.

Yoongi’s lips pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched tight. “I’m not yours,” he spat, voice trembling but filled with desperate bravado.

Seokjin appeared behind Namjoon, his hands slow and deliberate as they ghosted over Yoongi’s shoulders, tracing down his arms. “You don’t understand yet,” Seokjin murmured. “This isn’t about ownership. It’s about belonging.”

A tremor ran through Yoongi’s body at the touch, a mingled cocktail of fear and something far more tangled beneath his skin. He jerked his arms but the cuffs held him fast.

Jimin’s soft laughter echoed in the room, light but laced with cruel delight. “So stubborn,” he teased, fingers dipping beneath the hem of Yoongi’s panties to brush over his bare ribs. The chill air kissed the exposed skin, and Yoongi flinched.

“You don’t get to decide anymore,” Hoseok’s voice was warm, but with an edge that sent chills crawling down Yoongi’s spine. “We’re going to teach you—”

“Teach me what?” Yoongi’s voice broke. “To be your plaything?”

Taehyung stepped forward, his hand sliding up Yoongi’s chest, thumb pressing lightly against the taut skin beneath his collarbone. “To be ours,” he whispered.

Heat flamed low in Yoongi’s belly, defiant and desperate all at once. His heart pounded so loud he feared they could hear it. The restraints were biting into his wrists, but it was the weight of their gazes, their touches, their ownership that held him captive.

Jungkook’s voice was quiet but firm. “It’s okay to be scared, baby. You’ll learn.”

“No,” Yoongi’s voice cracked, tears threatening to spill. “I hate this. I hate you all.”

Namjoon’s grip tightened on his chin, tilting his head back. “Good. Hate makes you real.”

The room pulsed with tension—raw, electric, overwhelming. Yoongi’s rebellious spirit flickered, wavering against the dark tide rising inside him. Even as he fought, his body betrayed him with every shiver, every sharp intake of breath.

“You’re ours now,” Namjoon growled, lips brushing the shell of Yoongi’s ear. “And soon, you’ll beg to belong.”

The weight of their presence pressed down on Yoongi like a physical force, heavy and inescapable. His wrists ached, raw from the tight metal cuffs, but it was the feeling of being seen—completely vulnerable, completely trapped—that twisted in his gut with the sharpness of panic.
Namjoon’s hand slid down from Yoongi’s jaw, fingers trailing slowly along his neck, a touch both possessive and electric. Yoongi’s breath hitched, a flash of heat scorching his skin despite the cold chill in the room.

“Your body doesn’t lie,” Namjoon whispered, voice thick with dark promise. “You try to fight, but you melt beneath us.”
Yoongi swallowed hard, cheeks burning in furious shame. “I’m not—”
“Shh,” Seokjin’s soothing voice cut through his protests like silk wrapped in steel. “No more lies, baby. We know exactly how much you need this.”

Hands—Jimin’s, Hoseok’s, Taehyung’s—were on him then, tracing hot paths beneath his chest, fingers splaying across his ribs, his stomach, sliding lower with deliberate patience. Yoongi’s muscles trembled, a mixture of resistance and something dangerously close to craving.

“Say it,” Hoseok murmured into his ear, breath warm against his skin. “Say you belong to us.”

“Never,” Yoongi hissed, voice breaking as his body betrayed his defiance with a shudder.

“Lie all you want,” Jungkook’s steady voice promised. “We’ll take what’s ours, one way or another.”

Namjoon’s fingers found the edge of Yoongi’s panties, lifting it slowly to expose pale skin. His touch was maddeningly light, feather-soft, sending sparks of sensation trailing over bruised nerves and raw emotion alike.

“Look at you,” Namjoon said, voice rough. “So fragile, so perfect under our hands.”

Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat, eyes wide and unblinking. Tears spilled freely now, hot and unashamed.

“I hate this,” he sobbed quietly. “I… I want it to stop.” He thought quietly.

Namjoon’s lips pressed a hard kiss just beneath his ear, a promise and a warning. “Good. Because it’s only just begun.”

The heat in the room was suffocating, heavy with the scent of skin and want. Yoongi’s body was a trembling mess beneath their hands—restrained, vulnerable, utterly exposed. Each touch was deliberate, a slow invasion that left his nerves raw and alight.

Namjoon’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of Yoongi’s underwear, curling around the slick heat of his length. The sudden contact made Yoongi jerk sharply, hips lifting against the restraint. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven.

“Shh,” Namjoon murmured, voice dark and commanding. “You’ll learn to beg.”

Seokjin’s hands pressed firmly to Yoongi’s thighs, spreading them wider with careful precision. Jimin’s fingers trailed over the sensitive skin between, teasing, stroking with a cruel patience that left Yoongi on the edge of shattering.

Hoseok’s lips grazed the hollow at the base of Yoongi’s throat, tongue flicking over the skin, marking him as theirs. Taehyung’s fingers moved in tandem with Namjoon’s, slick and sure, eliciting a sharp gasp that echoed in the room.

Yoongi’s eyes fluttered closed, body arching involuntarily. His rebellious heart hammered against the cage of his ribs, desperate to break free even as waves of hot pleasure and fear crashed through him.

“Beg for us,” Jungkook’s voice was low, almost a growl, “and maybe we’ll let you come.”

The command shattered the last of Yoongi’s defenses. His lips parted, voice barely a whisper but laced with desperate need. “Please… please…”

A smirk curved Namjoon’s lips as they redoubled their efforts—fingers tightening, mouths trailing scorching kisses along every exposed inch of skin. The restraints bit deeper into Yoongi’s wrists, anchoring him helplessly as pleasure and pain blurred into one consuming fire.

Tears streamed down Yoongi’s face, hot and unrelenting, as the pack continued their relentless, possessive claim—each touch, each whisper, each command a thread tightening the bond that held him utterly, irrevocably theirs.

Yoongi’s breath was ragged, each inhale sharp and desperate as Namjoon’s fingers expertly circled the tip of him through the thin fabric, slick with growing arousal. The restraint against his wrists was unyielding, but the real captivity was the fire licking up his spine, ignited by every deliberate touch and hushed command.

Seokjin’s hands squeezed possessively around Yoongi’s thighs, holding him steady as Jimin’s fingers trailed lower, teasing the swollen head beneath the fabric with merciless patience. The pressure was maddening, a mix of sharp and soft that left Yoongi’s senses on a knife’s edge.

“You want this, don’t you, baby?” Jimin whispered, his voice dripping with cruel tenderness. “Want to feel us all over you.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, unable to meet the teasing gaze. His lips parted in a soft, broken moan, every nerve ending ablaze. “Please,” he gasped, voice trembling, “please… I need—”

Hoseok’s mouth found the sensitive skin at the base of Yoongi’s throat, teeth grazing lightly before sucking a dark, bruising mark into his skin. Taehyung’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband, stroking slow and sure, curling around Yoongi’s sensitive length with a wet, teasing glide.

The friction set his skin on fire. His body arched instinctively, hips grinding weakly against the invisible walls of his restraint. Jungkook’s steady hands moved up his torso, fingers kneading his ribs and stomach, grounding him even as waves of heat threatened to drown his will.

Namjoon’s voice dropped to a low growl near his ear, “You’re ours now, Yoongi. You’ll come when we say.”

Yoongi’s protest was lost in a strangled moan, head lolling back against the chair. The room was filled with the sounds of ragged breathing, soft gasps, and the slick sliding of skin against skin. Every touch was an exquisite torment, drawing out his surrender inch by agonizing inch.

His wrists burned where the cuffs bit into his skin, his thighs trembled, and his body betrayed him with every sharp gasp and shuddering breath. The lines between fear and pleasure blurred completely, wrapped tight around the unyielding possessiveness of the alphas. 

Tears slipped freely now, hot and desperate, as Namjoon’s hand curled possessively at his base, fingers pressing deep with deliberate, skilled pressure.

“Beg for us,” Namjoon commanded, voice dark and unwavering.

“Please,” Yoongi whimpered, voice breaking under the weight of his need. “Please… make me yours.”
Namjoon’s fingers tightened expertly around Yoongi’s length, slick and pulsing beneath his touch. The wet heat pressed through the thin fabric of his underwear, every stroke sending tremors through Yoongi’s trembling body. His restrained wrists dug painfully into the cold metal cuffs, but the desperate, burning need pooling in his core was far worse.

Seokjin leaned close, breath warm against Yoongi’s ear. “You’re so sensitive for us,” he murmured, voice low and possessive. His hand slid from Yoongi’s thigh to cup the tense, aching muscles of his ass, kneading slowly as if claiming what was theirs.

Jimin’s fingers danced teasing circles over the delicate skin of Yoongi’s inner thigh, inching dangerously close to the crease where the heat gathered thick and pulsing. “Beg,” he whispered, voice like silk and steel, “tell us you want this.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, chest rising and falling in a shaky rhythm. “Please… I want—” His voice broke on the desperate plea, raw and vulnerable.

Hoseok’s mouth captured the curve of Yoongi’s neck, teeth grazing and lips pressing bruising kisses down to the collarbone. Taehyung’s fingers again slipped beneath the waistband, curling and stroking with a deliberate slowness that made Yoongi’s skin burn.

Jungkook’s hands braced on Yoongi’s hips, steadying the trembling form, fingers digging into his skin with possessive strength. “You’re ours,” he said softly, voice low and sure, “and you’ll come when we say.”

Yoongi’s eyes fluttered closed, tears spilling as the exquisite torment of their touches overwhelmed him. His hips bucked weakly, straining against the restraints as Namjoon’s hand increased pressure, coaxing shudders and broken moans from deep inside.

Every nerve screamed, every breath was a plea. The cage of metal cuffs and leather straps was nothing compared to the prison of raw, aching need the Alphas held over him.

“Say it,” Namjoon growled, lips brushing against the shell of Yoongi’s ear. “Say you belong to us.”

“I belong to you,” Yoongi choked out, voice trembling. “Please… don’t stop…”

Yoongi’s body trembled violently, caught between the searing ache of resistance and the sharp sting of surrender. Every nerve in his skin screamed as Namjoon’s fingers stroked and coaxed with ruthless precision, the relentless touch igniting a fire deep inside him that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—contain.

His breath hitched, uneven and desperate, throat tight with emotion he hadn’t known he could feel so sharply. The restraints bit into his wrists, cold and unyielding, but it was the weight of their eyes on him—possessive, demanding—that held him captive more than any chain.

“Look at you,” Namjoon’s voice was a dark growl, inches from his ear. “So fragile, so raw. You’re breaking, and you don’t even know it yet.”

Yoongi’s lips parted in a shuddering gasp, tears slipping unchecked down his flushed cheeks. The storm inside him raged—fear, shame, desire, and something tender, aching, and utterly unspoken.

Seokjin’s hand landed with a sharp smack against Yoongi’s thigh, grounding him with a painful reminder of who held the control. “Let go,” Seokjin urged softly, voice like velvet. “We’ll catch you.”

The heat pooled low in Yoongi’s belly spiraled out, crashing over him like waves he couldn’t fight. His muscles clenched, then spasmed, the overwhelming release ripping through him raw and unguarded.

A strangled cry escaped his lips, breath shaking as the tight coil inside him unraveled. Namjoon’s steady hand never faltered, grounding him, guiding him as he fell over the edge—broken open, utterly exposed.

When the waves finally ebbed, Yoongi’s chest heaved with ragged breaths. His eyes fluttered open, meeting Namjoon’s fierce, unyielding gaze. In that moment, the line between torment and tenderness blurred, leaving only the undeniable truth:

He was theirs—body, mind, and soul.

------

The mansion’s stone walls stood like a fortress under the pale moonlight, its heavy silence broken only by the faint hum of medical equipment inside the converted library.Namjoon’s footsteps echoed softly on the polished floor as he moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back. Outside, the vast forest stretched endlessly, dark and impenetrable — a perfect place for what needed to happen tonight.

“Everything’s in place,” Jin’s voice was steady, practiced as he checked the sterile trays laid out meticulously on the stainless steel table. His surgical mask hung loosely around his neck, revealing the soft crease of worry between his brows.
Namjoon didn’t look at him. “Have you double-checked the anesthesia levels? If the Yoongi wakes too soon…” He didn’t finish the sentence. There was no need.
Jin’s eyes flicked to Namjoon, catching the shadow behind his calm exterior. “I triple-checked. The hybrid serum is prepped, and the vitals monitor is synced with the main system. No surprises.”

A long moment passed. The mansion seemed to hold its breath with them.

“Do you think he's ready?” Namjoon asked quietly.

Jin’s gaze softened as he pulled a chair closer to the table. “Ready doesn’t mean easy. But yes. We’ve done everything possible.”

Namjoon’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “This isn’t just surgery, Jin. It’s everything. If we fail—”

“We won’t.” Jin’s voice was firm but gentle, like a promise. “You’re not alone in this.”

The sound of a soft knock on the heavy door made both men tense. Namjoon moved first, opening it to reveal a nurse, clipboard in hand, eyes wide but steady.

“Yoongi is stable and ready for you both,” she said softly.

Namjoon nodded, then closed the door behind her. He looked back at Jin, the gravity of the moment settling between them like a thick fog.

“Let’s do this.”

Jin adjusted his gloves, the sterile latex snapping tight. “Together.”

The mansion held its breath as two men prepared to step into the unknown, bound by trust, skill, and the fragile hope of a second chance. The sterile hospital room inside the mansion hummed with quiet urgency. The patient lay on the surgical table, pale under the bright overhead lights, his chest rising and falling steadily. Namjoon stood beside Jin, their eyes meeting briefly — no words needed. Years of working together had sharpened an unspoken rhythm between them.

“Anesthesia stable,” Jin announced softly, his gloved hands steady as he adjusted the respirator mask on the Yoongi's face.

Namjoon nodded, carefully checking the IV lines. “Vitals steady. Beginning incision in 3… 2… 1…”

The cold sterility of the operating room pressed against Yoongi’s skin like a weight, starkly contrasting the warmth of Namjoon’s hand holding his.

He was stretched out beneath the harsh, unblinking light, heart pounding beneath the rhythm of his shallow breaths.

No wings. No feathers that could take flight.

Just ears. A tail. The subtle markers of a hybrid that would never let him soar.

“Ready?” Namjoon’s voice was steady but cracked at the edges, a threadbare comfort.

Jin swallowed. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Jin’s fingers were sure and calm as he prepped the instruments, their cold gleam reflecting the sterile light. Every tool had a purpose—scalpels sharp enough to carve flesh without tearing, microsutures thinner than a hair, grafts meticulously prepared for the delicate tissue work ahead.

Yoongi’s half conscious gaze flickered between Namjoon and Jin, his breath hitching as the reality of what was about to happen settled heavy in his chest.

The first incision was quiet—a precise line traced along the base of his skull, where raven cat ears would soon bloom. Before everything turned into darkness again.

Namjoon’s hand tightened around his, grounding him through the wave of sharp pain as the anesthesia deepened its hold.

“Namjoon remember” Jin whispered, voice low “we’re with you. Every second.”

Pack Alpha nodded, sweat slipping silently.

As Jin carefully sculpted cartilage and Namjoon sutured fragile nerves, the room felt suspended—time fractured between the steady beep of monitors and the soft swish of their practiced movements.

The bunny tail was next—a giant, rounded fluff patched beneath his spine, grafted with painstaking care.

Each stitch was a promise.

Each moment of silence, a shared heartbeat of fear and love.

Yoongi’s body trembled, from pain, from the weight of transformation—a silent scream locked deep inside.

He wasn’t a bird. Not a creature meant to fly.

He was becoming something else. Something… different. 

Namjoon leaned down, brushing damp strands of hair from Yoongi’s face. “You’re so brave.”

Jin’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You’re perfect. No matter what.”

The machines beeped steadily.

The future was uncertain.

But for now, Yoongi was held—between two hands, between two hearts—carved anew.

The scalpel glinted coldly in Jin’s hand as he made the precise cut. The quiet beeping of the monitors underscored the tense silence between breaths.

Namjoon’s fingers moved swiftly, assisting by holding back tissue, his voice calm but focused. “Bleeding controlled. Suction ready.”

Jin’s gaze was sharp, lips pressed in concentration. “There’s the hybrid nerve cluster. Careful — a single mistake and we lose function.”

Namjoon’s hands trembled faintly, but he swallowed it down and steadied himself. “Understood.”

The procedure was delicate — nerves intertwined with veins like fragile threads. Jin’s scalpel sliced with surgical grace while Namjoon monitored the Yoongi's vitals, alert for any sudden change.

Suddenly, the pulse monitor beeped erratically.

“Heart rate dropping!” Namjoon shouted, eyes darting to the screen.

Jin’s hands didn’t falter. “Increase anesthesia drip, now!”

Namjoon adjusted the IV as Jin expertly worked to stabilize the nerves.

Minutes felt like hours.

The beeping slowed, returning to a steady rhythm.

“Vitals stabilized,” Namjoon breathed, wiping sweat from his temple.

Jin exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Proceeding with graft placement.”

Namjoon carefully handed Jin the hybrid serum syringe, watching as Jin injected it into the targeted tissue.

“Response is good,” Jin muttered, watching the slight color return to the patient’s skin.

Namjoon’s lips curved in relief. “Almost there.”

With precision born from years of practice, Jin sutured the incision closed, sealing their work beneath the gleaming surgical lights.
He stepped back, removing his gloves slowly.

Namjoon exhaled deeply and met Jin’s gaze.
“We did it.”
Jin nodded quietly. “Together.”

The room was still except for the steady beep of the monitor — a promise that this night, at least, they had won. The surgical lights dimmed, leaving the room bathed in a soft, calming glow. The bunny or kitty whatever you like to call it was now safely tucked into the recovery bed, monitors beeping a steady, reassuring rhythm.

Namjoon sat heavily in a nearby chair, rubbing the back of his neck, exhaustion pulling at him like a heavy cloak.

Jin wiped his hands with a sterile cloth, then moved to sit beside Namjoon, his usual calm momentarily giving way to a rare softness.

“That was close,” Jin said quietly, voice low enough to blend with the quiet hum of the machines.

Namjoon nodded without looking up. “I thought… for a second, we lost him.”

Jin reached out, lightly resting a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. “But we didn’t. We fought together.”

Namjoon’s gaze finally met Jin’s, and in that look was a flood of unspoken gratitude, fear, and relief.

“We make a good team,” Namjoon whispered.

Jin smiled faintly. “More than that. We’re family.”

They sat together in the quiet room, the weight of the night easing as the patient’s steady breath filled the space between them.
Outside, the first hints of dawn crept over the horizon, promising a new beginning — one they had earned through skill, trust, and unwavering dedication.

------

The fog in Yoongi’s mind cleared slowly, like dawn breaking over a restless sea.

He blinked against the sterile light above, the sharp scent of antiseptic filling his nostrils.

His body felt heavy — unfamiliar. Everything ached. Yoongi felt dizzy. 

Namjoon’s voice came softly from the side, a tether to reality. “Yoongi? kitty? You’re awake.”

His eyes struggled to focus, catching Jin’s figure nearby, watchful and calm.

“Hey, baby,” Jin murmured, reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of damp hair from Yoongi’s forehead.

Yoongi swallowed, throat dry and scratchy. Panic flickered beneath the surface — a visceral confusion that clawed at his chest.

He reached up, fingertips trembling — and froze.

Fur.

Soft, black as midnight, brushing against his palms.

His cat ears twitched at the edges of his vision, their weight strange but undeniably there.

And below — the subtle, fluffy curve of the bunny tail nestled against the small of his back.

Yoongi was breathing so fast it hurt. His chest ached with every inhale, but no matter how much air he took in, it never felt like enough. Everything was too loud—his heartbeat, the echo of his name being called, the hum of the lights overhead. Too bright. Too much.

“I…” 

Tears streaked silently down his cheeks, hot and endless. He didn’t know when they’d started, only that they wouldn’t stop. His body trembled violently, like he was freezing, but his skin felt like fire. Shame burned under his skin, embarrassment and fear tangled in his gut like barbed wire. Why couldn’t he just calm down? Why couldn’t he just be normal?

Namjoon squeezed his hand, voice steady but gentle. “It’s okay. You’re still you.”

“But it’s not…” Yoongi’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. “Not what I wanted...”

Yoongi curled into himself, his ears twitching uncontrollably and his bunny tail brushing against nothing,Yoongi whimpered softly, curled on his side as his new tail twitched uncontrollably behind him. Each flick sent a sharp, stinging sensation through his lower back, making him wince. “It won’t stop,” he cried, voice shaky. The constant motion ached deep in his spine, too raw, too sensitive to bear.

“Wh-Why is this happening?” he sobbed, trembling hands pawing at the soft fur now sprouting along his hips. His body didn’t feel like his anymore—too sensitive, too strange. “I didn’t ask for this!” His breathing hitched, heart racing as he stared at the mirror, unfamiliar cat-like pupils staring back. “Make it stop, please…” he whimpered, tears spilling freely. His body felt too loud, too much. He pressed his face into his arms, overwhelmed and terrified, crying until his voice cracked.

Curling in tighter, trying to disappear. He didn’t want to be seen like this—weak and messy and broken. He didn’t want them to touch him, even if he desperately wanted someone to make it stop. His breath hitched on a sob, hands flying up to cover his face like maybe if he couldn’t see the world, the world couldn’t see him.

Jin leaned closer, voice warm and firm. “It’s okay to be scared. It’s a big change.”

Tears slipped freely now, spilling down his cheeks. He whimpered in response, throat too tight to form words. 

Namjoon wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. “We’re here. Always.”

Yoongi let himself fall into the embrace — broken, afraid, but held.

The world was different now.

But maybe, just maybe, he could learn to live in it.

Yoongi’s small frame trembled.  His sobs had quieted to soft hiccups, but his cheeks were still wet, and his lashes clung together with tears. Each breath came shallow, shuddering—his body exhausted but his mind refusing to let go.

Everything felt too big. Too loud. He kept his arms wrapped around the plush in his arms, mallow, he did not know how it got it and he did not like how it was a mockery of his old life. Clutching it like a lifeline, pressing his face into the soft fur to muffle the occasional whimper.

A hand gently rubbed his back—steady, warm, grounding. No words, just the slow, rhythmic movement. 

His eyelids grew heavier with each pass of that comforting touch. The fear didn’t disappear completely—but it dulled, just enough. His breathing slowed, hiccups fading into sleepy hums. Finally, with one last shaky exhale, Yoongi’s body gave in. Tears still clinging to his lashes, fingers still gripping his plush, he slipped into sleep—fragile and small, but no longer alone whether he liked it or not. 

------

“He’s gonna be so fucking pretty,” Jungkook murmured, tongue flicking over his lip ring as he leaned back against the couch, thighs spread. “Black ears, fluffy tail… fuck, I’m not gonna survive.”

Taehyung let out a deep groan, head tipped back lazily. “You saw the post-op photo, right? Pale skin, those giant ears twitching like he doesn’t even know how to control them yet. And that tail—thick as hell, resting right above that cute little ass…”

“Imagine him trying to sit,” Jimin added with a breathy laugh, hand slipping under his waistband, already half-hard just thinking about it. “All flustered and pouty ‘cause his new tail’s in the way. Bet he’ll whimper when we make him kneel. Bet he’ll blush all the way down his chest.”

Hoseok grinned like a devil, licking his teeth. “I wanna see his reaction when we touch his ears for the first time. You know they’re gonna be sensitive. One stroke and he’s probably gonna melt. All squirmy and wet and needy.”

“I just wanna see him on all fours,” Jungkook growled. “Tail lifted, hole on display, those ears drooping ‘cause he’s too dumbed out from getting praised.”

“Fuck, Koo—” Jimin bit his lip. “He hasn’t even healed yet and I already wanna ruin him.”

“You think he knows what he looks like now?” Taehyung’s voice dropped, dark and amused. “Jet black ears and that huge fluffy tail against his pale little body… baby looks like he was made to be owned.”

Hoseok leaned in, voice low and heated. “He was made for us.”

The room fell quiet for a second, thick with tension and heat.

Jungkook exhaled hard. “As soon as he’s recovered, I’m putting him in a collar and kitten mittens. I wanna watch him crawl around the house, tail swaying, ears twitching while he begs for our cocks like a good little hybrid.”

Jimin whimpered. “We’re not gonna make it through the week without touching him.”

“We’ll wait,” Hoseok said, but his eyes were dark with restraint. “But when it’s time? We’re going to fuck our kitten so good he forgets he was ever human.”

------

The room was thick with a silent, almost sacred tension as Yoongi laid on his stomach, sprawled on the bed, naked and vulnerable, the pale skin of his back and legs a soft canvas against the stark black of his plush bunny tail and velvety kitty ears bandaged into his new identity. His legs spread wide, every delicate pink inch of him exposed yet untouched — a promise waiting to be fulfilled. 

Yoongi whimpered softly in his sleep, face buried in the plush pillows as he unconsciously shifted his thighs wider apart. His skin glowed under the soft amber lighting, trembling slightly from a mix of pain and sensitivity, breathless nerves. His back arched on instinct, the curve of his spine accentuating the soft swell of his hips—on full display, just as if he’d been told to do so. His hole fluttered, untouched and impossibly tight, the faintest pink visible between the spread of his cheeks.

The air against his skin made him twitch, a fresh wave of heat blooming over his cheeks. He wasn’t used to this—being so bare, so exposed. So seen.

A quiet voice from behind praised him, low and warm, and Yoongi whimpered again while sleeping, hiding his face as if shielding him from the intensity. But he didn’t move. He stayed exactly where he was, presenting himself in a way an etiquette trained omega will feel ashamed—obedient, desperate to please, every inch of his untouched body trembling with the kind of sweet, anxious submission they adored.

He was virginal and perfect.

And they hadn’t even touched him yet.

Around the edges of the room, the pack watched, breath shallow, hands restless.

Namjoon’s gaze was fixed, dark and hungry. Slowly, he slid a hand beneath the waistband of his pants, fingers wrapping around himself as he watched Yoongi’s tail flick with subconscious anticipation. “So soft… so perfect,” he murmured, already lost in the image of Yoongi’s exposed skin.

Seokjin bit his lip, eyes locked on the flush blooming along Yoongi’s thighs and the subtle swell of his hips. His hand moved, slow and deliberate, as he stroked himself, the quiet sounds of his pleasure mingling with the soft rustle of the sheets.

Hoseok’s breaths grew uneven, his fingers sliding beneath his shirt to touch himself, eyes never leaving Yoongi’s trembling form. The flick of Yoongi’s tail, the twitch of those black ears — it was torture and salvation all at once.

Jimin and Taehyung exchanged a glance before both began moving their hands in rhythm, faces flushed with desire. “I want to watch him open,” Taehyung whispered, voice thick with need. “To see that pussy bloom under our touch.”

Jungkook knelt by the bed, his hand gripping himself tightly. “He’s so beautiful like this… it’s unbearable.” His gaze flicked to Yoongi’s hips, flushed pink and so inviting.

Yoongi shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping him, unaware of the hungry eyes tracing every line and curve. His tail flicked again — faster this time — and his ears twitched, responding to the invisible pull of their need.

Namjoon’s voice dropped lower, possessive. “Soon, baby. Soon you’ll be presenting for us, and we’ll make sure you come undone.”

The pack’s breaths and soft moans filled the room as they continued, their hands moving faster, hearts pounding in time with the silent, simmering heat radiating from the boy on the bed — their raven-tailed, black-eared prize, so achingly perfect in his vulnerable spread. 

Namjoon was the first to close the distance, his breath warm against Yoongi’s pale skin as he slid a hand beneath the curve of Yoongi’s hip. His fingers traced slow, feather-light circles along the softness of Yoongi’s exposed perineum, careful not to wake him but wanting to feel the delicate heat beneath his touch.

Seokjin followed, hands gentle but sure as they brushed over Yoongi’s flushed inner thigh, the skin so soft it seemed to melt under his fingertips. “So ready for us,” Jin murmured, eyes dark with need.

Hoseok’s fingers tangled in the sheets as he leaned closer, the subtle twitch of Yoongi’s tail making his heart race. He reached out, trailing his hand lightly over Yoongi’s lower back, down to brush teasingly against the base of that thick, fluffy tail — an unspoken invitation to open up.

Jimin’s lips parted as he reached forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from Yoongi’s nape before sliding his hand over the small of his back, fingers grazing the heated skin between Yoongi’s spread legs. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered, voice husky.

Taehyung’s eyes never left Yoongi’s black ears, which twitched in response to every touch. His hand slid beneath the pillow, coming up to gently cup Yoongi’s ass, thumb brushing over the crease where the softness awaited.

Jungkook moved beside the bed, breath shaky but steady. His fingers traced slow, tantalizing lines over Yoongi’s pale thigh, moving closer and closer to the center — feeling the warmth beginning to gather there. The perineum was flushed, warm, and twitching under his touch, and Yoongi whimpered, drugged out, hips trembling. “Right here,” Jungkook murmured, voice thick with desire. “Gonna be your pretty little cunt soon, huh?” He pressed down lightly, watching Yoongi gasped unaware. “Can’t wait to stretch you open, fuck you ‘til your new pussy’s dripping all over my cock.” His thumb stroked the sensitive spot again. “You were made for this, baby. For us. For me.” Yoongi moaned subconscious, breathless, already melting from just the feeling.

Yoongi shifted slightly, a soft, almost inaudible moan slipping past parted lips, his tail flicking more insistently and ears twitching with growing sensitivity. Though he remained asleep, his body was awakening beneath their touch, responding to the silent worship of the pack.

Namjoon’s voice was low, possessive, just for Yoongi “Present for us, baby. Open up. Let us see all of you.”

The hands that touched him were hungry but gentle, reverent but demanding, exploring every inch of that pale, pink skin, tracing the lines between innocence and want. The pack’s breaths mingled with the soft sounds of pleasure, their bodies moving in rhythm with the quiet stirring of the boy beneath them — their raven-tailed, black-eared dream, finally beginning to bloom.

Their breathing had grown shallow, strained with restraint, as their hands worked over themselves — each stroke fueled by the perfect picture before them.

Yoongi, naked and soft, lay still beneath the low light. His legs spread slightly wider now, his hips tilted up just enough to tease. His raven tail flicked gently over the dip of his spine, his ears twitching as if sensing the thick, electric tension hovering just above his skin.

Namjoon’s voice was low and trembling. “I can’t hold back anymore.”

“Me either,” Jimin whispered, chest rising and falling with ragged need.

They didn’t touch him. Not yet. But as their pleasure surged forward, they moved closer — hands still wrapped around themselves, their eyes locked on the swell of his hips, the gentle twitch of his thighs. The sight of him, flushed and unaware, was overwhelming.

One by one, they gave in to it — the raw, pulsing ache of wanting something just out of reach. Their moans were quiet, reverent. Their bodies arched, release claiming them in a silent, shared wave of hunger and awe.

Heat spilled across pale skin — streaks of devotion painting his thighs, the small of his back, a drop catching in the thick fur of his tail. None of them meant to mark him, and yet it felt natural. Inevitable. A preview of what would be theirs once Yoongi bloomed.

Yoongi shifted, sighing softly in his sleep, tail giving a lazy flick as if in approval.

They stood in silence for a moment, panting, hearts pounding in sync. Then Jungkook was already moving — a warm cloth in hand, voice gentle. “We should clean him up before he stirs.”

Namjoon nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. He is still sensitive and prone to infection. Let him rest now”. 

They moved carefully now, wiping his skin clean, fingers lingering with reverent touches. Soft praise spilled from their lips — beautiful, perfect, soon. One day, his body would welcome them all, willingly, completely.

But for now, this was enough: worshipping from a distance. Waiting.

Because when Yoongi finally presented… they'd make sure he forgot what he was.

They had just finished cleaning him, the warm cloth brushing lovingly across flushed thighs and the dip of his lower back. Jungkook’s hand lingered for a moment, thumb trailing along Yoongi’s soft hipbone when he paused.

“…Hyung,” he whispered, voice thick, “look.”

The others leaned in.

Between Yoongi’s parted legs, his cock was stirring to life — pink, flushed, already twitching faintly against the sheets. A bead of slick pre come welled at the tip, catching the light as his hips gave a soft, unconscious roll.

“Oh, fuck,” Taehyung murmured, his voice a reverent hush.

Namjoon’s hand clenched tightly at his side. “He’s reacting.”

Despite his peaceful sleep, there was no mistaking the hardening at his core. His cock stood firm and proud, pressing against the sheets, a clear sign of just how easily aroused he had become. The enhanced DNA Jin had integrated during the surgery wasn’t just cosmetic—he’d amplified Yoongi’s sensitivity, making every nerve ending alive with potential.

Even asleep, Yoongi’s body was responding to them — their scent in the room, their soft touches, the faint warmth still left on his skin from their release. His black ears twitched again, and his tail gave a lazy sway like he was dreaming of something warm, something good.

“He doesn’t even know what’s happening,” Hoseok said, voice thick with wonder. “But his body does. It wants.”

Jimin knelt beside the bed, eyes locked on the slow pulse of Yoongi’s arousal. He didn’t dare touch — just watched the way his cock curved so prettily against his stomach, so flushed and helpless, as another drop of clear slick gathered and spilled.

“He’s getting close to presenting,” Jin said, swallowing hard. “His instincts are pulling at him, even now.”

Hoseok whispered with awe, “Hyung, you really outdid yourself. Look at him—hard as a rock while he’s asleep.”

They watched Yoongi’s hips shift again, just slightly, and his lips parted in the softest moan — high, breathy, and completely unaware.

Jungkook leaned closer, whispering softly, as if Yoongi might hear it in a dream. “You’re so sensitive, baby… even your cock knows you’re meant to be filled.”

Jimin giggled softly. “Jin’s genius made him perfect—soft, sensitive, and so easy to tease.”

Jin just smiled, pride blooming in his chest. “He’s exactly what we hoped for—our perfect little hybrid.”

Taehyung grinned, eyes dark with desire. “Half bunny, half kitty all horny. He’s gonna be so needy.”

Jimin nudged Jin with a grin. “Honestly, Jin’s hands did the magic, but none of this would’ve happened without Namjoon’s idea.”

Jungkook nodded eagerly. “Yeah, hyung was the one who suggested mixing the hybrid DNA with enhanced sensitivity. Without him, Yoongi wouldn’t be half as responsive.”

Jimin smiled softly. “Namjoon always thinks ahead. This whole transformation—making Yoongi softer, more vulnerable, and… well, easily aroused—it’s brilliant.”

Hoseok laughed, ruffling Namjoon’s hair. “You gave us the blueprint, and Jin turned it into art.”

Namjoon shrugged modestly, but the proud sparkle in his eyes said it all. “I just wanted to make Yoongi the best version of himself."

The members quietly reached toward Yoongi’s sleeping form, fingers itching to explore his soft skin and twitching ears. Just as their hands hovered

Namjoon exhaled slowly, controlling the urge to do more. “Let him feel it. Let his body learn this.”

They didn’t touch him — not there. Not yet.

But they stayed close, watching, breathing him in. Letting their presence seep into the moment like heat in the dark.

And Yoongi, beautiful and slowly hardening beneath them, remained their sleeping vision of want — pink, flushed, and utterly perfect.

------

The room buzzed with low laughter and hushed voices as the pack lounged comfortably, their eyes sparkling with mischievous anticipation.

Jimin grinned, nudging Taehyung. “I swear, when Yoongi starts presenting, he’s going to meow like a little kitty—soft, desperate, and impossible to resist.”

Taehyung chuckled, ruffling his own hair. “He already has those raven-cat ears, but I bet they’ll twitch so much, and his tail will be all fluffy and needy. He’ll probably blush pink from head to toe.”

Hoseok leaned forward, eyes shining. “He’s going to look so tiny and delicate when he’s overwhelmed. Like a fragile little bunny in the middle of a storm.”

Jungkook’s grin grew wide, and he rubbed his hands together. “And I cannot wait for his heat-driven lactation. Imagine how much he’ll want to give—so needy, so full of life.” 

Namjoon smirked, voice low and thick with anticipation. “You know Yoongi’s heat lactation is going to drive him crazy. That sweet milk leaking from those perfect tits… I can already imagine it.”

Jin chuckled darkly. “He’s so fragile, but his body betrays him. He’s going to be dripping and swollen, begging us to milk him over and over.”

Taehyung’s eyes gleamed. “I want to see him squirm under my touch, nipples hard and leaking, tail twitching as he loses control. The way he whines when we tease that sensitive skin…”

Jungkook smirked as he leaned over the back of the couch, eyes glinting. “Bet he’ll start squirming the second someone even brushes his chest.”

“Oh, definitely,” Jimin laughed, licking his lips like he was already imagining it. “He gets all pouty and whiny, like he doesn’t love the attention.”

Taehyung chuckled, propping his chin on his palm. “Remember last time? Just one little touch and he was mewling like we’d done something criminal.”

“Mm,” Jin hummed with a grin. “Poor baby’s going to be so full. We’ll have to take turns. Can’t let it go to waste.”

Namjoon raised a brow, mock-serious. “It’s a public service, really. A full-bellied bunny is a desperate bunny.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook added, “and a milk-drunk Yoongi is so sweet. All glossy-eyed and dazed, just melting into our hands.”

Jimin grinned. “We should get the a milking machine in advance. And towels. He gets messy.”

They all laughed knowingly, the air thick with anticipation and affection. Each of them was already imagining their little bunny’s flushed face and breathy whines—and how much fun it would be to tease him the moment he started overheating.

Jimin bit his lip, smirking. “His heat will leave him a mess—milk staining his pale skin, soaked and desperate. I swear, I’m going to make him beg for every drop.”

Hoseok laughed softly. “That’s our baby, so sweet and needy. His body was made for this—soft, dripping, helpless under our hands.”

Namjoon’s gaze darkened. “And when we finally get to him, we’ll make sure he’s dripping with more than just milk. He’s ours, completely.”

The others chuckled and exchanged looks, their teasing playful but soaked with genuine affection.

Jimin laughed softly. “His libido’s going to be insane. Half bunny, half raven-cat… our little hybrid kitty is going to be insatiable.”

Taehyung smirked. “We should start calling him ‘Kitty’—fits him perfectly.”

Hoseok nodded enthusiastically. “Kitty it is. Can’t wait to spoil him when he’s like that.”

Namjoon and Jin stood nearby, arms crossed but smiling faintly at the affectionate teasing.

The pack’s excitement swirled around them like a warm current, a perfect storm of love and desire for their uniquely beautiful Yoongi—soon to bloom into something breathtakingly new.

------

The sterile scent of the clinic still lingered faintly on Yoongi’s skin, mixed with the lingering warmth from the injections and surgeries he had just undergone.

His new black cat ears twitched gently as he blinked against the soft pastel light of the heat room. His fluffy white bunny tail curled softly behind him, a new part of himself that still felt surreal.

Yoongi’s new cat ears twitched uncontrollably, betraying every flicker of his emotions. No matter how hard he tried to stay calm, they jumped and swayed with every sound, every thought. He pressed his fingers gently to the soft black fur, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

The slightest noise made his ears perk up or droop, and he felt completely exposed. They were so sensitive—too sensitive. His heart raced, and he wished desperately to hide, but the ears gave him away every time, a constant reminder of his new, vulnerable hybrid self. Yoongi’s fingers trembled as his cat ears twitched wildly, refusing to stay still. The constant, uncontrollable movements overwhelmed him, and a lump formed in his throat. His breath hitched, and suddenly the tears spilled—soft, hot drops streaming down his cheeks. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “I don’t want everyone to see… I can’t control this…” His voice cracked, small and fragile. The ears twitched again, as if mocking him, and the weight of his new, uncontrollable hybrid body pressed down, making him feel more alone and scared than ever before.

Yoongi lay curled on the bed, hiccuping through quiet sobs as his oversized, fluffy bunny tail twitched behind him. It was too big, too sensitive, brushing against the sheets with every movement. “Why’s it like this?” he whimpered, burying his face in his arms. “I hate it…” But it wouldn’t stop." Yoongi’s tears spilled harder as his enormous, fluffy tail twitched uncontrollably, every tiny movement sending sharp jolts of pain through his sensitive nerves. He curled tighter, clutching the sheets. “Please… stop,” he sobbed, voice breaking. But no matter how much he wished, the relentless twitching wouldn’t cease.

Namjoon chuckled as sat close, his large hands steady as they adjusted the plushie around Yoongi’s slender frame. At 5’3”, Yoongi looked delicate beneath the towering alphas — his collar bones sharp, his peach-shaped bottom plush and soft to the touch.

Jimin was checking Yoongi’s temperature again, concerned at the slight fever but pleased to see him otherwise stable.

Jimin knelt beside the bed, soft light casting a warm glow over Yoongi’s flushed skin. Yoongi’s breath hitched, eyes wide and vulnerable as Jimin carefully held the small rectal thermometer in his hand. “I’m going to be gentle, baby,” Jimin whispered, voice thick with tenderness.

Yoongi’s hands trembled as he shifted slightly, his cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and nervous anticipation. The hybrid changes had made his body more sensitive than ever, and the idea of something unfamiliar like this felt intimidating. His virgin asshole clenched instinctively at the unfamiliar sensation of the rectal thermometer, but Jimin’s calm presence was steadying. Slowly, Jimin’s fingers guided the thermometer just past the tight, untouched ring—so delicate and new. Yoongi’s eyes fluttered closed, breath shallow. Yoongi bit his lip, cheeks flushing as a sharp ache pulsed deep inside him. His body protested quietly, but humiliation kept his words locked away.

When Jimin gently began to insert the thermometer, Yoongi’s body stiffened—too big for his sensitive frame, the unfamiliar pressure making him tense. He bit his lip to keep from crying.

“Almost there,” Jimin murmured, careful not to rush Yoongi's new body, his touch light and reassuring. He watched Yoongi’s face teary, pain giving way to a quiet acceptance. When the thermometer was in place, Jimin held him close, rubbing gentle circles along Yoongi’s side.Jimin smirked softly, watching Yoongi’s flushed face as he held the thermometer. Jimin’s eyes sparkled with quiet mischief. 

Jimin’s fingers lingered gently on Yoongi’s skin, his voice soft but teasing. “I’m going to push it a little further now, okay? Just breathe through it.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, a flicker of nerves mixed with trust shining in his eyes. “Mmm, okay…”

Slowly, carefully, Jimin pressed the thermometer deeper inside, his hands steady and warm. Yoongi’s body tensed, his eyes squeezed shut as the thermometer pushed deeper, a sharp sting flaring inside him. “J-Jimin…” he whimpered, voice trembling, tears pricking his eyes. The pressure was more than he expected, overwhelming and painful despite Jimin’s gentle hands.

After a moment, Jimin withdrew it slowly, wiping Yoongi’s skin with the gentlest care. “You did so well,” he praised softly, pressing a kiss to Yoongi’s temple. “I’m proud of you.”

“You’re still a little warm, princess,” Jimin said gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from Yoongi’s flushed face. “It’s normal, but we’ll keep you comfortable.”

Yoongi bit his lip, cheeks flushing as a sharp ache pulsed deep inside him. His body protested quietly, but pride and shyness kept his words locked away. Yoongi whimpered softly, tears slipping down his cheeks as a sharp, burning ache radiated deep inside him. The penetration had been more than his sensitive body could handle, every movement twisting the pain sharper. He curled into himself on the bed, trembling, desperate to hold back the sobs threatening to break free.

Yoongi’s lips parted slightly as he sucked his thumb — a comforting habit from his oral fixation — and whimpered softly. The sensation of overstimulation in his changing body made his skin hypersensitive; every touch was magnified, making him ache in a way he couldn’t fully describe.

Yoongi’s thoughts was low and bitter his oral fixation, once a secret comfort, had become a source of shame under Namjoon’s relentless encouragement. Every whispered command, every lingering glance pushed him deeper into craving, making him feel weak and exposed. He hated how vulnerable it made him, how easily Namjoon could unravel his composure with a simple word or touch. The hunger inside wasn’t just desire—it was a cage, and Namjoon held the key.

Yoongi’s thumb was almost raw from constant sucking, but he couldn’t stop—even though the humiliation burned deep in his chest. Every time he tried to pull away, the desperate urge pulled him back, relentless and maddening. Frustration twisted inside him, mixing with shame and helplessness. The childish habit made him feel small and exposed, yet it was the only thing that soothed the storm inside. He hated how weak it made him, but the craving was too fierce to fight.

Yoongi hesitated, eyes downcast as he held the pastel bottle in trembling hands. His cheeks burned, ears drooping low with shame. “I-I don’t need this,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “I’m not a baby.” But his body betrayed him—lips parting as instinct tugged, humiliation curling tight in his stomach.

Yoongi was grateful that he took the bottle, his pink lips brushing over it. The coolness soothed his extremely dry throat. Yoongi’s lips wrapped eagerly around the baby bottle’s nipple, sucking with desperate hunger. His eyes fluttered shut, craving the soothing coolness as if it could wash away his restless ache. Despite the embarrassment, he couldn’t stop—every gulp grounding him in a fragile, comforting escape from the world.

Namjoon leaned in, pressing gentle kisses to Yoongi’s temple and down his jawline.

“You’re safe,” Namjoon whispered. “We’ll take care of you every step.”

Jungkook was at Yoongi’s side too, helping fit a delicate collar around his slender neck — a symbol of belonging, both protective and intimate.

“Try to rest, doll,” Hoseok said softly, draping a weighted blanket over Yoongi’s small frame to help ground him.

With every touch, every whispered word, Yoongi felt less alone — even as his body transformed, growing softer curves and new sensations he struggled to manage.

Yoongi’s heart hammered painfully in his chest at the betrayal as his gaze slowly drifted upward. The room felt impossibly cold, though sweat slicked his pale skin. It hit him all at once—he was completely naked. Exposed. Every inch of him laid bare in front of those who held power over him, who had used his trust and broken his fragile spirit. Yoongi’s breath caught as he slowly became aware of his surroundings—the soft sheets beneath him, the cool air brushing over his bare skin, and most unsettling of all, how exposed he was with his legs spread wide on the bed. The baby bottle pressed eagerly to his lips felt suddenly strange against his vulnerability. His cheeks flamed crimson, panic and shame swirling inside him.The vulnerability of being exposed, combined with the childish act, made his heart pound in shame.

His breath caught in a sharp gasp, and he instinctively curled inward, trying to cover himself, but there was nowhere to hide. The heavy silence pressed down on him, making his shame feel suffocating. Their eyes were on him—cold, calculating, unyielding. Yoongi’s throat tightened; words died before they formed.

Fear mixed with a raw, bitter ache, but he dared not speak. What could he say? How could he ask for mercy when he felt so small, so utterly crushed? His limbs trembled, but his voice was swallowed by dread. All he could do was lie there, naked and broken, wishing for an escape that wouldn’t come.

Yoongi pressed himself tightly against his oversized plushie, Mallow, clutching it like a shield between his trembling body and the cold, harsh world around him. The soft fabric was a comfort—a small barrier that made him feel a little safer, a little less exposed. His fingers dug into the plush fur as if holding onto the last thread of security he had left.

But as much as Mallow soothed his nerves, the silky softness against his bare skin sparked something else—an unwanted heat blooming low and deep. His body betrayed him despite his fear and shame, the friction of the plush fabric against his sensitive skin making him flush hotter. His cock twitched beneath the soft plushie, stubborn and aching in a way he didn’t want to admit.

He buried his face into Mallow’s fluffy neck, muffling a whimper. The plush's comforting weight clashed painfully with the unwanted hardness growing inside him. Yoongi’s breath hitched; he hated how easily his body betrayed him, how helpless he was. But all he could do was cling tighter to Mallow—his soft, silent companion—hoping it could somehow shield him from everything else.

Yoongi’s grip on Mallow tightened as the room filled with low, amused chuckles. The others’ eyes gleamed with hungry mischief as they circled him like predators.

Jimin’s voice was soft but laced with mockery. “Look at you, baby, hiding behind your plushie… but that stubborn little cock says you want more than comfort.”

Taehyung smirked, stepping closer. “Can’t help yourself, huh? All soft and needy, even when you try to hide.”

Hoseok laughed, voice warm but cruel. “You think that fluffy thing can save you? We see every twitch, every leak. You’re so fucking exposed.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened. “Your body betrays you, baby. No shame in being desperate, but don’t pretend you’re innocent.”

Yoongi whimpered, cheeks burning hotter than ever. He clung to Mallow, but it was useless—every inch of him was on display, every weakness bare for them to see and take. Yoongi’s tears slipped quietly down his cheeks as he clung to the baby bottle, sucking desperately. Each gulp mixed with soft sobs, his body trembling with a storm of emotions he couldn’t quite control. the bottle was his fragile lifeline in a world that felt overwhelming and cold. His sobs echoed softly in the quiet room, raw and vulnerable, wrapped in helplessness.

Yoongi’s tears spilled uncontrollably, hot and bitter as frustration overwhelmed him. His body throbbed painfully—every nerve raw from the relentless teasing, every muscle aching from tension he couldn’t release. He sobbed silently into Mallow’s soft fur, wishing he could disappear, begging for relief that wouldn’t come. The ache inside wasn’t just physical; it was the weight of helplessness crushing him, the sharp sting of being seen so vulnerable and broken. His fragile frame shook, exhausted and overwhelmed, caught between shame, pain, and a desperate need for comfort he felt too scared to ask for.

The members’ smirks deepened, their eyes glinting with cruel amusement. Jin’s voice was soft but edged with wicked intent. “Poor baby, hurting like this… Do you want help, Yoongi?”

Taehyung leaned in, voice low and teasing. “Or maybe you want us to make it worse? Tell us what you want.”

Jimin’s fingers danced near Yoongi’s trembling skin. “We could fix that ache… but only if you’re willing to be honest.”

Hoseok grinned darkly. “You’re ours, after all. We decide how to help you.”

Namjoon’s gaze was sharp, demanding. “Speak up, or suffer in silence.”

Yoongi’s tears spilled faster, torn between fear and the desperate, confusing pull of their sadistic control. His voice barely a whisper, he trembled, caught in their game—broken, vulnerable, and utterly at their mercy.

Yoongi’s breath hitched as he finally whispered, “I… I want help.” Yoongi laid on the mattress, eyes half-lidded, rocking his hips slowly as he tried to soothe the restless tension building inside him. The motion was subtle, almost unconscious, as if his body sought comfort on its own. His breath came in soft pants, chasing relief he didn’t fully understand. The room tensed, anticipation thick in the air. Fingers twitched, ready to close in, but Jin’s sharp voice cut through the silence.

“Enough,” Jin said firmly, eyes cold. “Yoongi’s body isn’t ready yet. He still needs rest. Moving him too much will only make things worse.”

The others hesitated, frustration flickering across their faces, but Jin’s authority was clear. He stepped closer, placing a protective hand on Yoongi’s trembling shoulder.

“You’re fragile right now,” Jin murmured, voice softer but still commanding. “No one’s touching you until you’re stronger. Understand?”

Yoongi nodded weakly, frustration mixing with lingering fear. The others pulled back reluctantly, their cruel smiles still there just enough to let him give his silent plea. 

For now, Jin was the shield between Yoongi and their dark desires—holding back what they all wanted, because Yoongi’s body and mind weren’t ready yet.

Yoongi’s voice cracked as desperation spilled out, trembling and raw. “Please… please don’t stop. I need it—I can’t take this ache anymore.” His hands clenched the edge of the blanket, eyes wide and pleading. “I’m begging you… just a little. Please, don’t leave me like this.”

His body trembled with need and shame, every nerve screaming for release, but his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’ll be good… I’ll do whatever you want… just please…”

The room fell heavy with silence as his vulnerable plea hung between them, raw and heartbreaking.

The members exchanged cold, lingering glances before stepping back slowly. Jin gave one last, sharp look at Yoongi, voice clipped and firm. “Rest now. No more for tonight.”

One by one, they turned away, the door clicking shut behind them. The lock slid into place with a definitive thud. The room was plunged into silence, the faint sound of Yoongi’s shaky breaths the only sign of life.

Outside, their footsteps faded, leaving Yoongi alone—locked away, vulnerable, aching, and utterly powerless. 

------

Yoongi’s skin prickled with cold as the heavy door swung open, the harsh light flooding the sterile medical room. He blinked, disoriented and raw—his body completely exposed, every inch bare and vulnerable. The silence was shattered by the low, hungry voices of the members waiting just outside.

Namjoon smirked as he guided the trembling, naked kitty out of the med room, Jin’s hand firm on Yoongi’s ass. “Look at you, still hard and needy,” Namjoon growled in his ear. “Could barely walk, huh?” Jin chuckled. “Such a messy little thing. You love being hard it, don’t you? I swear we did not even touch you baby; you're hard on your own.”

Jungkook's voice was the first, smooth and teasing. “Well, look at you. Naked and helpless, like a scared little bunny.” His eyes gleamed as he stepped closer, the others fanning out behind him, their gazes sharp and hungry.

Jin’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “You’re so soft, Yoongi. Pale skin flushed red, twitching ears, that fluffy tail—it’s impossible to look away.” His finger traced the air near Yoongi’s exposed form, as if already marking his territory.

Taehyung chuckled darkly. “I never thought I’d see you like this—completely unguarded and aching. I bet you can’t stop yourself from leaking already, huh?” His voice dropped to a rough whisper, eyes raking over Yoongi’s sensitive skin.

Jimin stepped forward, voice sultry and sharp. “Your body betrays you, baby. Every twitch, every shiver—it’s all so delicious. I’m going to enjoy watching you squirm.”

Hoseok laughed, the sound both playful and cruel. “You think that plushie saved you? Doesn’t matter now. We see everything—the hardness beneath your skin, the way your tail flicks when you try to stay still.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, shame burning deep, but he couldn’t look away. Their eyes were on him, weighing and measuring, full of dark promises. His body trembled—not just from cold, but from the unbearable mix of fear, humiliation, and a confusing, unwanted heat rising inside him.

Namjoon’s voice cut through, colder now. “You belong to us, Yoongi. Naked, exposed, and completely ours. There’s nowhere to hide.”

Jin’s gaze hardened. “Remember this feeling—the helplessness. Because soon, it’s going to be your constant state. We’ll own every inch of you.”

Taehyung smirked. “And every time you think you can escape, your body will betray you again. You’re already ours—soft, needy, and utterly exposed.”

The room felt suffocating, Yoongi’s skin crawling beneath their relentless stares. He curled inward, clutching Mallow tightly, the only comfort in a world that suddenly seemed too cruel, too dark.

But the members only smiled wider, enjoying every second of their power over him.

The members’ eyes flicked down, dark with amusement and something sharper—hungry satisfaction. Despite Yoongi’s trembling and shame, the unmistakable hardness pressing against his pale skin was impossible to miss.

Jimin smirked, voice low and teasing. “Look at that, baby. Already hard again. Can’t help yourself, can you?”

Taehyung chuckled, stepping closer. “That stubborn little cock betrays you every time we’re near. So desperate and soft beneath all that pride.”

Hoseok’s grin widened. “You try to hide it, but your body’s too eager. It’s like you’re begging for us, even when you don’t want to admit it.”

Namjoon’s gaze sharpened, cold and commanding. “Good. We want you this exposed—want you to know you belong to us, down to every twitch and leak.”

Jin’s voice was smooth, filled with dark promise. “You’re already ours, Yoongi. Hard and helpless—there’s no hiding from what we’ve done to you.”

Yoongi’s cheeks flushed hotter, embarrassment and helpless need mingling painfully as the members’ eyes lingered on him, relishing his undeniable submission. Yoongi’s bare skin prickled with cold and shame, his body trembling as Jimin and Hobi circled him like predators with soft smiles. Naked and vulnerable, he wished he could disappear — the weight of their teasing words cutting deeper than any touch.

Jimin’s voice was low, almost cruel in its sweetness. “Your little cock… it’s going to shrink more when you present as omega. Even smaller, even more fragile.”

Hobi’s eyes darkened with something fierce. “So easy to break, so easy to own.”

Jin’s sharp voice cut through the heavy air. “Enough. Shut up, both of you.” His gaze was fierce, unwavering. 

Yoongi’s voice was barely a whisper, trembling with fear. “Jin… what’s an omega?” He swallowed hard, eyes wide and pleading, too scared to ask again. The word felt heavy, full of unknowns. His heart raced as he waited, desperate for an answer but terrified of what it might be. But Jin didn’t answer, eyes glued to his phone. The others laughed quietly, slowly drifting away, leaving Yoongi standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. One by one, the pack left—everyone except Jungkook, Taehyung, and him. The silence pressed down, making Yoongi’s chest tighten. He felt smaller, lost between the two boys who shared his confusion, and the empty space where the rest had vanished. Alone but not quite, Yoongi swallowed his fear, wishing someone would finally explain.

Yoongi’s voice was barely a whisper, trembling with embarrassment as he looked away. “Can… can I have some clothes?” His body burned with shame, every exposed inch aching for even the smallest barrier.

Jungkook grinned mischievously, stepping closer. “Clothes? You mean like… this?” He gestured vaguely, eyes sparkling with teasing.

Taehyung chuckled, looping an arm around Jungkook’s shoulders. “We could just leave you like this, you know. It suits you—so soft and helpless.”

Yoongi’s cheeks flamed hotter, panic rising. “Please… I can’t—”

Jungkook leaned down, voice low and playful. “What if we gave you something… special? Something that shows off just enough?”

Taehyung smirked. “Yeah, like a cropped shirt. Keeps you covered, but not too much.”

Before Yoongi could protest, Jungkook tossed him a small, tight cropped shirt. It barely reached his ribs, leaving most of his pale skin on display. Yoongi hesitated, biting his lip, but slipped it on, the fabric brushing sensitively against his bare skin.

Jungkook and Taehyung exchanged satisfied looks, their teasing smiles softening just enough as Yoongi’s flushed face peeked out from under the shirt’s edge—half-covered, still vulnerable, and completely theirs.

Yoongi’s bare feet padded softly across the floor as he hesitated at the doorway, the cropped shirt clinging to his frame like a fragile shield. The others were already seated around the dinner table, their eyes flicking up to catch his arrival.

Namjoon’s gaze was sharp but unreadable. Jin offered a small, almost gentle nod. Hoseok smirked, clearly amused, while Jimin and Taehyung exchanged quick, knowing glances. Jungkook’s eyes sparkled with mischief, as if daring Yoongi to be anything but vulnerable.

Yoongi swallowed hard, his cheeks burning. He took a tentative step forward, heart pounding in his chest. Each movement felt heavy, every breath a reminder of how exposed he was—even clothed, in this tiny shirt.

He slid into an empty chair, hands trembling slightly as he set them on his lap. The room was thick with unspoken tension, a mix of dominance and quiet expectation. Yoongi’s gaze dropped to the table, trying to focus on the simple act of eating, though his nerves refused to settle.

The members watched him closely, the atmosphere charged with something dark and electric. Yoongi’s body was theirs to read, every small twitch and flush visible under the dim light—and despite the fear, a fragile thread of trust wove through the tension, binding them all together in this moment.

Yoongi shifted awkwardly in his chair, his fingers nervously clutching the edge of the table. His black, giant tail flicked and twitched behind him, every soft, fluffy strand incredibly sensitive. The dining chair’s hard surface pressed uncomfortably against the delicate fur, sending sharp jolts of sensation up his spine.

He tried to adjust discreetly, curling the tail tighter, but the overwhelming sensitivity only made it worse. A soft whimper escaped his lips as the ticklish, electric feeling teased him relentlessly. His cheeks flushed hotter—not just from embarrassment, but from the impossible mix of discomfort and unwanted stimulation.

The members glanced his way, some smirking knowingly, others pretending not to notice. But Yoongi could feel their eyes on him, adding to the weight of his vulnerability. The tail, usually a small comfort, now felt like a trap—fluffy, exposed, and impossible to ignore.

He swallowed hard, praying the sensations would dull soon, but deep down, he knew this was only the beginning.

Jin leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “I expected more by now. The hybrid surgery and enhanced DNA should’ve triggered something—heat, swelling, at least some hormonal responses.”

Namjoon sighed deeply. “Maybe he’s suppressing it. Or his body is reacting differently because of the modifications.”

Jin frowned. “That could make things complicated. If he doesn’t present naturally, it’ll be harder to help him through the heat and lactation phases.”

Namjoon’s gaze darkened. “We need to monitor him closely. If he resists presenting, it might affect his overall health—and the whole process we planned.”

Jin nodded slowly. “Agreed. For now, we keep watching and be ready to intervene if necessary. Yoongi’s body might surprise us yet. You’re thinking about triggering it manually?”

Namjoon nods slowly “Just enough. Controlled induction. We wouldn’t leave him alone. He’d be surrounded, safe. We could ease him through it.”

Jin pauses, thoughtful “You think he’s ready for that kind of touch? For how intense it gets?”.

“I want us to be the ones who teach him what it means to belong to Alphas. To feel safe in surrender. He won’t survive his first heat alone. But if we guide him... he won’t just present—he’ll blossom.” Replied Namjoon. 

“We’ll prepare the room. Scent it gently. No slick stimulants yet—just pheromonal conditioning. And touches maybe milking sessions though I do not like the idea of anything entering Yoongi's virgin hole before us”. 

Namjoon’s voice dropped to a growl as he leaned close to Jin, eyes dark with hunger. “When Yoongi’s dripping and begging, trembling under us, he’s going to know exactly who owns that sweet little body. We’ll fuck him until he can’t remember his own name—ours will be the only voices he hears.”

Jin smirked, heat flashing in his gaze. “Every whimper, every desperate need, he’ll be ours to take. Soft little brat doesn’t know how good he’s going to have it, how much he’ll crave the weight of us on him. We’ll claim him hard, mark him deep.”

Namjoon’s hand slid over Jin’s wrist, squeezing possessively. “He won’t get to hide. Not from us. We’ll tease that pretty pussy until he’s soaked and swollen, begging for more—our names dripping off his lips like a prayer.”

Jin’s voice was rough, thick with promise. “We’ll break him, and build him back better—ours, utterly and completely. That filthy little omega? He’s gonna be our perfect, helpless fucktoy. No one else gets him.”

Namjoon grinned, wicked and sure. “We’ll own him. Body, soul, everything.”

Unbeknownst to them what the future stored

Chapter Text

Yoongi’s bare ass pressed against the cool diaper, but despite its snug fit, warmth began to seep out, staining the soft padding. He squirmed awkwardly, cheeks burning bright as the mess spread, overwhelming the diaper’s limits. The sticky heat clung to his skin, making him acutely aware of every wet, messy inch. His tail twitched nervously, and his eyes darted around, hoping no one noticed. The helplessness of it all weighed heavy—too embarrassed to speak, too overwhelmed to move. The damp discomfort was a harsh reminder of how much he depended on the pack’s care.

Yoongi’s breath hitched sharply in the stillness of the night, the soft rustle of blankets the only sound around him. His large, black cat ears twitched weakly, drooping slightly with shame and exhaustion. His fluffy, oversized bunny tail curled uncomfortably beneath him, damp and cold against the specially designed diaper meant for hybrids like him—soft and thick to fit bunny physiology, but now soaked, sticking unpleasantly to his skin.

His small fingers clutched the plushie tight to his chest, the fabric damp beneath his palm. A hot wave of shame curled through his chest, squeezing like a vice, and tears welled up uncontrollably behind his lashes. He hated this so much. He hated that his hybrid body betrayed him, hated that despite the thick bunny-tail-friendly diaper, he’d still wet himself.

No—no, no, no. Not again. He didn’t want this. The cold, sticky wetness made his skin crawl and his heart pound wildly in panic. His fluffy tail twitched anxiously, but it was no comfort. He felt disgusting, helpless—like a lost little child trapped inside his own skin.

He curled tighter against the pillow, burying his face in the plushie’s soft fur. The familiar scent should have comforted him, but tonight, even that felt hollow. His chest shook as silent sobs escaped him, muffled into the fabric, the tears soaking into the plushie’s worn collar. He hated this part—the humiliation, the helplessness, the panic clawing up his throat.

His cat ears twitched sharply, picking up the soft breathing of the others around him, all sleeping soundly. Namjoon, Seokjin, Jimin… peaceful, untroubled. And here he was, a trembling mess, stuck in this soaked diaper with his fluffy bunny tail pressed awkwardly beneath him, crying into a plushie like a scared little kid.

With trembling hands, Yoongi reached blindly beneath his pillow and found the familiar, smooth plastic of his pacifier. It was a lifeline in moments like these, something to quiet the storm inside him. He pushed it between his lips, the coldness soothing the rawness of his throat, and sucked weakly.

The pacifier didn’t stop the tears right away, but it gave him something to hold onto—a fragile thread of calm amid the chaos. His breaths came slower, more even, but the shame still weighed heavy in his chest, pressing down on his black-furred ears, making them droop lower.

He glanced toward the other beds, their occupants deep in sleep, peaceful and untroubled. He wanted to be that calm, that unbroken. But right now, he was just a small hybrid boy, with cat ears folded low, a fluffy bunny tail soaked and uncomfortable beneath him, clutching a soaked plushie and sucking his pacifier to hold himself together.

“Why can’t I stop?” he whispered to the dark, voice cracking. “Why do I have to be like this?”

Yoongi’s tears burned hotter as anger flared beneath his shame. They did this to him—the ones who promised care but only forced him to wear diapers, to lose control, to feel small and broken. They made him this helpless, made him depend on pacifiers and plushies like a scared child. His ears flattened against his head in frustration, tail twitching wildly. “Why do they keep doing this?” he whispered fiercely to the dark. “Why won’t they stop? I’m not weak. I’m not broken—they are the ones who hurt me.” The bitter truth twisted deep inside him, raw and aching.

His sobs quieted until only a soft whimper remained. The night felt endless, but he wrapped his arms tighter around the plushie, held the pacifier closer, and tried—desperately—to believe that maybe, somehow, he’d be okay.

Yoongi’s heart thudded painfully as the Jimin’s fingers pressed against the swollen front, feeling through the thick padding. Yoongi’s heart thudded painfully as the Jimin’s eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line.

“It’s soiled again,” the voice said, sharp and accusing. “How long has it been like this?”

Yoongi’s ears twitched anxiously, cheeks burning crimson. He swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “I… I didn’t want to wake you.”

The harsh whisper cut through the quiet room like a whip. “Yoongi, why didn’t you wake me up?” Jimin's voice was cold, sharp, filled with disappointment and frustration. Yoongi’s heart slammed against his ribs, panic rising instantly. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting back a sob. His cat ears flattened painfully against his scalp, and his fluffy bunny tail twitched nervously beneath the soaked diaper.

“You know your skin’s sensitive,” the voice continued, harsher now. “Rashes don’t just disappear because you wish them away. If you’d only told me… if you’d only been responsible for once, maybe you wouldn’t be like this.”

Yoongi felt tears sting anew as he trembled under the weight of blame. The diaper chafed raw, heat burning where the rash had spread—an angry, angry mark that screamed neglect. His breath hitched, voice barely a whisper, “I… I’m sorry…”

The Jimin’s tone didn’t soften. “Sorry isn’t enough, Yoongi. You need to learn. Next time, don’t make me regret not waking up.”

The room felt colder, heavier, and Yoongi curled tighter, sinking deeper into the shame and hurt.

Yoongi’s breath hitched in panic as he felt the familiar, unwelcome stubbornness grip him again. His small hands trembled, trying to calm the unwanted hardness that refused to soften. His diaper — specially designed for bunny hybrids like him — lay open and ready, but the thick, stubborn hardness pressing against it made the simple task of wrapping impossible. But no matter how much he willed it, his body wouldn’t comply. 

“God, why won’t you just soften for me?” Jimin hissed low, voice sharp and cold as he crouched beside Yoongi. His fingers hovered, impatient and cruel, tracing the tense length of Yoongi’s cock that stubbornly refused to relax. “You’re making this so difficult, baby bun.”

Yoongi whimpered, cheeks burning with shame and helplessness. His breath hitched, ears folding back as he tried to pull away, but the abuser’s grip tightened around his wrist, holding him in place. “I’m sorry,” Yoongi whispered, voice trembling. “I’m trying…”

“Trying?” Jimin sneered, leaning in close so that his breath ghosted over Yoongi’s trembling lips. “You’re pathetic. A baby who can’t even manage a fucking diaper change without ruining everything.”

Tears pricked at Yoongi’s eyes, hot and bitter, but his body betrayed him even more — hips shifting involuntarily, tail twitching wildly with desperate need and frustration. The stubborn hardness stretched the fabric of the diaper, mocking Yoongi’s misery.

“You don’t get to be soft on me,” the abuser snarled, voice laced with dark satisfaction. “You’ll stay like this — hard, needy, useless — until I say otherwise.”

Yoongi’s sobs hitched painfully, a low mew slipping out. He felt small, broken, and utterly at the mercy of the cold hand holding him prisoner — trapped in his own body, unable to stop the burning ache that wouldn’t let him be free.

His black cat ears twitched anxiously, flat against his scalp in shame. His fluffy bunny tail curled awkwardly beneath him, exposed and vulnerable. The Jimin’s sharp voice cut through the air, impatience evident.

“Fine,” the voice snapped. “If you can’t cooperate, then you don’t get the diaper right now.”

Yoongi’s heart slammed painfully as he watched the heavy fabric retreat, leaving him pant less, the cool air making his flushed skin prickle uncomfortably. The only thing left to wear was a tight, cropped tank top—so small it barely covered his ribs, revealing the tense, trembling length that refused to relent.

He wanted to shrink into nothingness. The tight fabric pressed against his sensitive skin, and the exposure made every nerve feel raw, vulnerable. His ears twitched again, this time almost painfully, and his bunny tail flicked nervously. The room was silent except for the rapid pounding of his heart.

“Just stay like that until you learn,” the voice said coldly, stepping away. The door clicked shut.

Yoongi swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He curled in on himself, hugging his knees close, wishing desperately for relief—both from his body and from the cold shame that wrapped around him tighter than the tiny tank top ever could.

The door creaked open softly, and another voice—cool but sharper—cut through the silence. “What is that? That tank top looks awful on you.”

Yoongi’s ears flattened instantly, cheeks flushing hotter. Before he could protest, strong hands gently but firmly lifted him up, like he weighed nothing at all. His fluffy bunny tail pressed awkwardly against the air, exposed and vulnerable as the tank top was peeled off, leaving his pale skin bare and trembling.

“Stop squirming,” Jin's voice murmured, a strange mix of annoyance and something colder beneath. Yoongi’s small frame was cradled like a child’s, the weight both comforting and humiliating. He hugged his plushie instinctively, feeling helpless and raw.

The other’s steps were steady and certain as they carried him out of the bedroom, down the hall. The living room’s soft light spilled around them, and Yoongi’s heart raced—exposed, naked, and completely at their mercy.

His cat ears twitched, tail flicked nervously, and silent tears welled up, but he bit his lip to hold them back.

He was utterly powerless.

Yoongi’s small body settled onto the abuser’s lap, the soft warmth a confusing mix of comfort and humiliation. His fluffy bunny tail twitched anxiously as the thick diaper still absent, left him exposed and vulnerable beneath the steady gaze. The tightness in his chest and the stubborn hardness between his legs only made him feel more tangled inside—shame twisting with a strange, uncomfortable need.

The abuser lifted a baby bottle, the nipple soft and warm as it was pressed gently to Yoongi’s lips. Yoongi sucked weakly, the milk soothing but doing nothing to quiet the persistent ache beneath his skin. His black cat ears twitched, flicking nervously with every swallow.

“Shh, it’s okay,” the voice cooed, a sharp contrast to the roughness of their grip. “Just drink, baby.”

But the hardness refused to soften, pressing against the absence of the diaper, making him feel exposed, bothered, and utterly confused. He wanted relief, but all he felt was the sting of shame and helplessness wrapped tight around his trembling frame.

Yoongi’s eyes welled with tears, his cheeks flushed, caught between embarrassment and the desperate need to calm the storm inside him.

Chapter Text

Yoongi, a soft-spoken scholarship student, arrived on campus with nothing but a suitcase and a fresh nervous crush on his mysterious new roommate: Kim Namjoon, a senior with cold eyes, too-perfect confidence, and a room that always smells faintly of cedar and smoke.

Unbeknownst to Yoongi, Namjoon is a Pack Alpha, tasked with finding the perfect human to turn—a mate or a tool, depending on how well they break.

Namjoon becomes fascinated by Yoongi’s small, delicate body and skittish personality. Instead of brute force, he uses seduction, subtle power, and the slow burn of dominance to unravel Yoongi's innocence. Over time, Yoongi finds himself craving Namjoon's approval... and punishments.

The line between fear and arousal begins to blur. The werewolf world is cruel—but Namjoon's control is the only thing that ever makes Yoongi feel safe.

On the first day Yoongi’s heart pounded as he stepped onto the university campus, his small suitcase trailing behind him. Everything felt so huge and overwhelming—the towering buildings, the bustling students, the unfamiliar noises. At just seventeen, he was still so young, barely out of high school, and this new world made him feel like a tiny fish in an enormous ocean.

When he had reached the dorms, his hands trembled slightly. The lobby was filled with strangers laughing and talking loudly, their confident voices making him feel even smaller. Yoongi clutched his bag tighter, eyes darting around for a friendly face, but found none. The polished floors and bright lights seemed cold, and the scent of disinfectant made him feel even more alone.

He took the narrow elevator up to his floor, barely daring to breathe. In front of his dorm room door, the small, plain space suddenly seemed too big for just one person. The silence was heavy, and Yoongi swallowed nervously. Would he make friends? Would he fit in? The weight of uncertainty pressed down on him, but deep inside, a tiny hope flickered—maybe, just maybe, this place could become a home.

Yoongi stood in front of the dorm room door labeled B-206, nervously twisting the strap of his duffel bag. The campus hallway smelled like cheap bleach and plastic, and somewhere in the distance, a loud laugh echoed off the linoleum.

He was seventeen, barely five foot two, and already regretting the oversized hoodie he'd chosen to wear. He felt like a child. Worse—he felt like he didn’t belong here at all.

With a shaky breath, he knocked.

No answer.

He tried the handle. It was unlocked.

The door creaked open into a dimly lit room that smelled… expensive. Leather. Earthy wood. Musk.

He stepped inside cautiously. 

The dorm room exudes a quiet, expensive darkness that settles into every corner like velvet. As soon as the door swings open, the lighting dims to a rich, moody hue — the walls painted in a deep charcoal, softened by matte textures and ambient lighting tucked into corners like whispers.

To the immediate right is a compact but elegant kitchenette. The cabinets are a sleek black wood grain with brushed gold handles that catch the low light, and the countertops are a polished obsidian stone. A matte black induction stove sits under a minimalist overhead hood, and the sink basin is deep and quiet, with a gooseneck faucet in a muted brass finish. Opposite the kitchen, also near the entrance, is the bathroom — its door slightly ajar revealing sleek slate tile floors, a wall-mounted sink, and a frameless glass shower with black fixtures that gleam faintly under the soft downlighting.

Beyond the kitchen, the room opens into a modest living space. On the left is a black leather two-seater couch, its surface gently worn in a way that speaks of both use and quality. It faces a large flat-screen TV mounted against the opposite wall, and beneath the screen rests a low-profile black entertainment unit with a few stacked art books and a wireless speaker, glowing with a cool white halo. Just to the left of the TV, neatly arranged, is a modern study setup — a wide, dark wood desk illuminated by a slender desk lamp with a curved neck and warm light. A matte black gaming chair with subtle red stitching is tucked under the desk, plush and perfectly contoured for long hours of use. The desk holds a few essentials: a high-end laptop, a custom keyboard, a wireless mouse, and a ceramic mug with faint rings staining the base.

Past the couch area, the room becomes symmetrical. Two beds are positioned on opposite sides of the room, leaving a small expanse in the middle — enough to sit, stretch, or place a shared rug. Each bed is covered in dark bedding, the left with slate grey sheets and the right in deep navy, both accentuated with crisp black pillows and folded throws. The headboards are upholstered in a suede-like material, charcoal in color, and each side has its own compact nightstand with a small drawer, a digital clock, and a minimal bedside lamp.

At the very end of the room is the only window — large but covered in blackout curtains that pool onto the floor. When opened, the curtains reveal a clear rectangular pane looking out over the quiet city skyline, offering a sliver of light during the day, but otherwise remaining closed for privacy and mood. The overall feeling of the room is cocoon-like: sophisticated, masculine, and deliberately uninviting to clutter. It’s a space that hums with silence and sleek comfort, sharp in design but warm in atmosphere — a room built for privacy, power, and precision.

To the left, a wide desk. Glossy black. On it sat a laptop, a small stack of leather-bound notebooks, and a silver tray with what looked like hand-cut crystal coasters. One wall was lined with books—philosophy, anatomy, political theory—and the other held a queen-sized bed, layered with charcoal-gray sheets and thick blankets.

Yoongi stepped into the dorm room with quiet hesitation, his fingers clutching the strap of his bag like a lifeline. The door shut behind him with a soft click that somehow echoed too loud in the heavy silence. The moment he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere hit him like a weight—dark, polished, and cold. The walls were deep charcoal, the lighting dim and indirect, and everything felt… too grown-up. Too sharp. Too expensive. It wasn’t unwelcoming, just not his.

He stood near the entrance for a moment, wide eyes scanning the space. The small kitchen gleamed with black and brass, intimidating in its sleek perfection. The living area—black leather couch, towering TV, shadowed corners—felt like a place where silence was expected. Even the study desk looked serious, not studious, with its clean lines and mechanical gaming chair.

Yoongi shrunk into his oversized cream hoodie, the sleeves nearly swallowing his pale hands. His jeans were loose, cuffed at the ankles, barely holding on to his small frame. His face, framed by long, neatly trimmed black hair, looked out of place in the room’s sharp contrast—his skin nearly translucent, lashes casting soft shadows over anxious doe eyes.

He stepped further in, the soles of his sneakers soundless on the floor, and made his way toward the bed on the left. It looked exactly like the other—dark bedding, minimal. Not at all what he was used to. His room at home had light yellow walls and fairy lights, soft comforters and shelves of pastel trinkets.

From the crook of his arm, Yoongi pulled out his one piece of familiarity: a huge, fluffy bunny plush— dusty pink with soft pink ears. He placed it gently on the bed, its oversized body collapsing into the pillows like it belonged there. It didn’t, not really. The plush looked absurdly out of place against the dark bedsheets and the intimidating backdrop. But Yoongi didn’t care. He needed something to hold onto.

He sat on the edge of the bed, knees pulled close, shoulders tense. His gaze flitted around nervously, never landing for long. Everything here felt too sharp for someone like him—too loud in its silence. He felt small, even smaller than usual, and terribly unsure of how he was going to survive this place.

Yoongi looked around the room again, anxiety tightening in his chest. Everything looked expensive—too expensive for a dorm. The sleek kitchen, the massive TV, the perfect leather couch, even the heavy blackout curtains—it all screamed money. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Who even decorates a dorm like this? His roommate must be rich. Like, really rich.

The thought made Yoongi even more nervous. What if his roommate took one look at him—small, shy, plain in his oversized hoodie—and decided he didn’t belong here? What if he got laughed at for the bunny plush? Or worse, pitied? Yoongi had grown up in a quiet, middle-class household, always protected, always sheltered. He never had to deal with people who came from real power, real money. He pulled his knees up to his chest, curling tighter. I don’t fit here, he thought, panic slowly creeping in. What if he thinks I’m pathetic?

Yoongi had unpacked his clothes slowly, folding each item with meticulous care as if it might help calm the pounding in his chest. His side of the room was already half the size—he didn’t want to take up more space than necessary. Namjoon’s presence filled every corner anyway. Yes Namjoon was his roommate Yoongi learned.

It wasn’t just his height—though at over six feet, Namjoon was massive beside him. It was how he moved, how he claimed space like it belonged to him. The room responded to him. Even the air felt thicker when he walked past.

“First night nerves?” Namjoon asked later that night from his bed, one arm draped lazily over his chest.

Yoongi glanced up and quickly looked away. The towel was still there. Barely. Why was Namjoon still in his towel after showering? Was it normal thing? 

“I guess,” he mumbled.

Namjoon smiled. “You always this quiet?”

“I just… don’t like being too loud,” Yoongi offered.

Namjoon let out a low hum. “You’ve got one of those voices, though. Soft. Easy to listen to. I bet you make the cutest sounds when—”

Yoongi froze.

Namjoon’s gaze sharpened. “—when you laugh,” he finished, smoothly.

Yoongi turned red.

Namjoon’s smirk widened. “Relax, baby. I’m just teasing.” His voice dropped lower. “Unless you like it.”

Yoongi didn’t know what to say. He felt small. Overexposed.

And yet… something deep in his stomach fluttered.

That night, Yoongi lay curled up in his twin bed, facing the wall, pretending not to hear the slow rustle of sheets behind him as Namjoon shifted.

His senses felt overwhelmed.

Namjoon had walked out of the bathroom earlier in just a towel, damp and shirtless. His voice had a way of pulling Yoongi in, smooth and warm like honey laced with smoke. He’d called Yoongi “sweetheart” when passing him the phone charger. Had reached over him to open the window, brushing his arm deliberately close.

Yoongi had muttered a thank you.

Namjoon had leaned in, voice just behind his ear. “So polite. You gonna be this good for me all year?”

It was just a joke.

Right?

But Yoongi’s skin burned at the memory. He shifted beneath the covers, thighs pressing together. His hoodie stuck to the back of his neck from sweat. It was too hot in the room, and Namjoon had insisted on turning off the fan.

“Cold air messes with scent,” he’d said vaguely.

Yoongi hadn’t asked what he meant.

Now, in the dark, he felt the weight of Namjoon’s attention like a hand on the back of his neck.

Namjoon watched him breathe. From the other bed, propped on one elbow, he took in the shape of Yoongi’s spine through the hoodie. The dip of his waist. The way his knees tucked up. He was tiny. Fragile. Smaller than Namjoon had realized at first glance.

Yoongi’s body was built to yield.
He wondered if Yoongi knew how easy he was to pin down. How good he’d look arched over Namjoon’s lap, begging in that breathy voice.

But not yet.

He was patient. Yoongi was nervous—skittish like prey—and Namjoon liked that. He liked earning each tremble, each stolen glance. The seduction of it. The build.

He shifted under the covers, smirking to himself as he scented the air—sweet with the faintest trace of arousal, buried under nervous sweat and linen.

Yoongi was trying so hard to be good.

Perfect, Namjoon thought. He just doesn’t know it yet.

------

One day Yoongi woke suddenly, a heavy pressure pressing insistently beneath his pajama pants. His body felt strange, stiff in a way he couldn’t explain. His heart pounded, and a flush crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks. He didn’t understand what was happening. He hesitated, trembling fingers brushing over the rigid hardness that made him want to hide and run away at the same time.

'What is this?' His thoughts swirled in confusion and panic. He’d never experienced anything like this before—not even close. He swallowed hard, curling tighter beneath the thin blanket, wishing the feeling would just disappear on its own.

But before he could think more, the door to the dorm room quietly opened. Namjoon stepped inside, his eyes immediately locking onto the undeniable shape beneath Yoongi’s blanket. His lips curled into a slow, teasing smirk.

“Well, well,” Namjoon said, voice low and amused. “Looks like someone woke up with a problem.”

Yoongi’s cheeks burned hotter, and he pulled the blanket up higher, voice shaking. “I… I don’t know what this is. Why… why is my body like this?”

Namjoon moved closer, the heat of his presence filling the small room. His eyes gleamed with dark amusement. “That’s called morning wood,” he explained, voice thick with teasing dominance. “It means your body’s waking up hard. It happens to everyone. But it won’t go away on its own.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, panic prickling at his skin. “Then what do I do?” he whispered, voice cracking. “How do I make it stop? I don’t… I don’t know how.”

Namjoon’s grin deepened, his tone sharp and commanding. “You have to touch yourself. Gently. Slowly. That’s how you get rid of it.”

Yoongi’s heart slammed against his ribs. His hands shook, mind racing with shame and confusion for not knowing something basic. “I’ve never… done that before,” he admitted, voice barely audible.

Namjoon’s eyes softened just a fraction but stayed dark and intense. “Good. Then I’ll teach you. Now take off your pants.”

Yoongi’s trembling fingers obeyed, sliding the fabric down as fast as his embarrassment allowed. His small, vulnerable body lay exposed under Namjoon’s hungry gaze. His cheeks burned with the sting of humiliation, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re so shy,” Namjoon murmured, voice low and possessive. “But that’s perfect. I like breaking you in slow.”

Namjoon crouched beside him, reaching out to guide Yoongi’s hand. “Touch yourself,” he ordered, voice firm but patient. “Slow. Soft. Don’t rush.”

Yoongi’s fingers were clumsy and uncertain, fumbling over his skin. His breath grew shallow, heart racing faster with every tentative stroke. Then a sudden rush of new, overwhelming sensation hit him—confusing, scary, and yet somehow intoxicating.

“I think… I’m going to pee,” Yoongi gasped, eyes wide with panic, tears spilling freely.

Namjoon chuckled darkly, tightening his grip. “No, baby. That’s not pee. It’s something else—something much better. Just let go. Trust me.”

Namjoon’s voice was everywhere, rough and commanding as it wrapped around Yoongi like a leash. “Feel it building? That’s your body waking up to me. You’re mine now. Let go for me, baby. Let it all go.”

Yoongi trembled, overwhelmed by the sensation rolling through him. His body betrayed him, every nerve alight and buzzing. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he gave in, shuddering with his first release.

Namjoon held him steady, voice low and possessive. “That’s it, my good boy. Your first. So perfect. So mine.”

When the storm passed, Yoongi lay panting, heart pounding, cheeks flushed, tears still warm on his face. Namjoon leaned down, brushing damp hair from Yoongi’s forehead.

“You did so good,” he murmured, voice soft but still firm. “You belong to me now. No more hiding. No more fear.”

Yoongi nodded slowly, still overwhelmed but soothed by Namjoon’s steady presence. The dorm room didn’t feel so cold or lonely anymore. It was the place where everything was changing—where Yoongi was learning who he really was, under Namjoon’s dark, demanding care.

Yoongi’s breath hitched as tears blurred his vision, cheeks burning hotter than ever. His voice was barely a whisper, trembling with confusion and shame. “W-what was that… the pee-like stuff? I thought I was going to pee…”

Namjoon’s smirk twisted darker, eyes glittering with wicked amusement. He leaned in close, voice a low, teasing growl. “That wasn’t pee, baby. That was your body leaking because you’re so fucking desperate for me. You don’t know it yet, but you’re dripping all over yourself because I own you.”

Yoongi’s whole body froze, heart slamming against his ribs. The shame mixed with a raw, aching need twisting inside him. Namjoon’s words wrapped around him like a leash, tight and intoxicating.

“You’re so wet for me already,” Namjoon purred, voice thick with dark promise. “Little baby can’t even handle his own heat. Look at you, trembling and leaking like a filthy little mess. And I haven’t even started yet.”

Namjoon’s fingers tightened possessively around Yoongi’s shaking hand. “That slick? It’s proof. Proof that you belong to me—my soft, helpless pet. You think that embarrassment is yours to keep? No, baby. It’s mine now. Every drop is a mark, a claim.”

Yoongi whimpered softly, cheeks burning with humiliation and want. “I… I don’t know what to do with it. I’m scared.”

Namjoon chuckled low and cruel, voice laced with playfulness and control. “Scared? You should be. Because once I get my hands on you, you won’t be able to think about anything else but how badly you need me. How much you crave being my broken little omega, dripping and begging for more.”

His lips brushed Yoongi’s ear, breath hot and heavy. “You’re small, soft, and dripping like the perfect pet you are. And don’t think I won’t remind you of that every time you try to act like you’re not mine.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched again, caught between panic and the strange, delicious ache that only Namjoon’s dark words could bring. Namjoon’s hold on him was absolute, cruel, and utterly intoxicating.

“That slick? It’s your mark of ownership, baby,” Namjoon whispered, voice dropping to a sinister purr. “And I’m just getting started with my claim.”

The bathroom was cold, sterile, but the steam quickly filled the small room as Namjoon turned on the hot water. Yoongi stood silently, vulnerable beneath the harsh fluorescent light, his skin pale and trembling. He felt exposed in every sense—body, mind, and soul.

Namjoon stepped behind him, his presence heavy and unyielding. His hands were firm as they guided Yoongi under the spray, water cascading down the tense lines of his slender frame. Yoongi’s breath hitched, unsure where to place his eyes or how to steady his shaking limbs.

“You don’t have to be afraid here,” Namjoon murmured, voice low and commanding. “I’m here. You belong to me now.”

Yoongi’s throat tightened, tears mixing with the droplets on his cheeks. The weight of Namjoon’s control was suffocating yet strangely grounding. His hands moved hesitantly as Namjoon’s guided fingers began to wash over him, deliberate and unrelenting.

“Feel everything, baby,” Namjoon said, voice both harsh and soothing. “This is just the beginning of what I’ll teach you.”

Under the water, Yoongi’s defenses cracked. The mixture of warmth, dominance, and Namjoon’s whispered commands washed over him, leaving him raw, exposed, and achingly dependent.

The heat of the water wrapped around them, but it did nothing to chase away the cold knot twisting in Yoongi’s chest. Namjoon’s hands were sure and relentless as they roamed over his body, touching places Yoongi barely understood, stirring sensations both foreign and overwhelming. His breaths came fast, shallow, caught somewhere between fear and something darker—something that pulsed deep beneath his skin.

“Relax,” Namjoon whispered in his ear, voice low and sharp like a blade. “Let it go, baby. You don’t have to fight me.”

Yoongi’s eyes fluttered shut, but the trembling only worsened. His body betrayed him again, responding far beyond his control. Namjoon’s fingers moved with expert precision, coaxing, teasing—relentless.

“No,” Yoongi whispered hoarsely, voice breaking. “I can’t… please…”

But Namjoon’s grip tightened, holding him fast—not cruel, but unyielding. “You need this, even if you don’t want to admit it. You need to feel how deep you belong.”

The tension coiled tighter and tighter until Yoongi was trembling on the edge, tears streaming down his face as the pressure broke—sharp, overwhelming. His second release hit him like a storm, wrenching and consuming. He sobbed into the spray, utterly undone, breath ragged and heart pounding violently against his ribs.

When it was over, Namjoon pulled him close, the cool water mixing with Yoongi’s tears and slick or cum. “You’re mine,” he murmured fiercely, voice cracked with possessive hunger. “And you’re going to be addicted to this feeling—whether you want to be or not.”

Yoongi clung to him, trembling, terrified and desperate all at once. The line between pain and pleasure blurred until it didn’t matter anymore—only Namjoon’s dark, unshakable hold on him.

As the water continued to fall around them, Namjoon’s hands stilled for a moment, his voice shifting from teasing to something colder, more clinical. He pressed close, eyes locked on Yoongi’s flushed, trembling face.

“Listen, baby,” Namjoon said firmly, “what we just did? It’s not just about pleasure. It’s important. For your health.” His tone was sharp, almost lecturing, but laced with possessive care. “You started doing this way too late. Your body needs it—needs you to learn how to take care of yourself.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, mind swirling with shame and confusion. “I… I didn’t know,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Nobody ever told me.”

Namjoon’s grin darkened, teeth flashing. “That’s because you were sheltered. But now, you’re mine. And I’m going to make sure you never forget again. You have to do this often. It’s how you keep yourself healthy, keep your body from turning against you.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, heart pounding. The weight of Namjoon’s words pressed down on him, heavy and unyielding.

“You’re small, fragile, and you started so late,” Namjoon continued, voice dropping low, almost cruel. “So you better listen carefully. I’m the one teaching you now. And you’re going to obey.”

Yoongi’s lips trembled, overwhelmed but craving the certainty in Namjoon’s dominance. “I’ll… try.”

Namjoon’s eyes softened just a fraction, then darkened again with promise. “Good. Because this is just the beginning.”

Yoongi stood beneath the steaming water, body still trembling, cheeks flushed and wet from tears he didn’t bother to wipe away. Namjoon’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and heavy like chains.

'I started so late' Yoongi thought, heart sinking. 'I didn’t know my own body… I didn’t even know I needed this. Am I broken?' The shame clawed at him, fierce and merciless. He’d always been careful, always tried to hide any sign of weakness or need. But now, with Namjoon’s voice still lingering in his ears, the truth felt undeniable—and terrifying.

'I’m small. Fragile. And completely out of control.' He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing as the pressure built inside him again, unwanted but impossible to ignore.

Namjoon’s shadow loomed close, voice a dark command that cut through Yoongi’s panic. “You have to do this often. Don’t fight it. Your body demands it now.”

The possessive edge in Namjoon’s tone both terrified and stirred something deep in Yoongi—a confusing mix of fear and desperate need. 'I’m his now' he realized, 'and no matter how scared I am, I want him to guide me. To take control.'

Tears welled again, but this time there was something softer beneath the rawness—something like fragile trust. Namjoon’s hand reached out, firm and sure, and Yoongi didn’t pull away.

“I’ll… try,” he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of the promise and the fear.

Namjoon’s gaze locked onto him, fierce and unwavering. “Good. Because you’re mine. And I’m going to make sure you never forget.”

The water ran hot around them, but Yoongi felt colder than ever—caught between shame and surrender, confusion and a strange, growing craving for the dark, possessive care only Namjoon could give.

Namjoon’s gaze pinned Yoongi, unblinking and intense as the steam curled around them. “You need to do this at least three times a day,” he said, voice low but commanding. “Morning, afternoon, night—no excuses. It’s not just for your body. It’s for your mind. For me.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, cheeks flushing deeper as the weight of Namjoon’s command settled over him. “Th-three times?” His voice cracked, barely believing it.

Namjoon’s lips curved into a slow, dark smile. “Yes. Three. Or more if you can handle it. Because your body’s desperate for this. You’re way behind, baby, and I’m not letting you fall behind again.”

Yoongi bit his lip, swallowing down the jumble of shame, confusion, and something else—something burning quietly beneath his fear.

“And if you ever get stuck,” Namjoon added, voice dropping into a softer, almost possessive tone, “you come to me. You ask me. You don’t try to figure it out alone, not anymore.”

Yoongi’s eyes flickered up, vulnerability spilling over. “I… I don’t know if I can.”

Namjoon’s fingers brushed gently over Yoongi’s jaw, thumb tracing his cheek tenderly but with undeniable ownership. “You can. Because I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. You’re mine, Yoongi. I’m your guide, your teacher. You’re not alone.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, his heart pounding wildly. The mixture of Namjoon’s ruthless control and rare kindness wrapped around him like a shackle he didn’t want to break free from.

“I’ll try,” Yoongi whispered again, voice shaking but determined in its own fragile way.

Namjoon’s grin was sharp and hungry. “Good boy. Now get used to it.”

That evening Yoongi sat on the edge of his bed, the room dim except for the soft glow of his phone screen. His hands were trembling, fingers fumbling nervously as he stared down at himself, heart hammering painfully in his chest. Namjoon’s command replayed relentlessly in his mind: 'Three times a day. No excuses.'

He wanted to be strong, to prove he could do this alone — that he wasn’t as fragile or helpless as he felt. But his body betrayed him from the start. The moment his fingers brushed the delicate skin of his penis, an overwhelming rush of sensation shot through him like an electric shock. It was too much, too sudden.

He flinched, hands pulling back instinctively, breath hitching painfully. His skin prickled, every nerve raw and screaming, but his heart clenched tight with frustration and shame. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill. 'Why is this so hard?' he wondered miserably.

He tried again, more cautiously this time, slow and hesitant. But the sensitivity was maddening—each touch too sharp, each movement triggering a cascade of overwhelming heat and aching need that his inexperienced hands couldn’t control.

Yoongi’s breaths grew ragged, chest tightening as he felt himself close to breaking, but the panic swelled too fast. His body tensed, overwhelmed by a fierce mix of sensation and shame that made him choke back a sob.

“I… I can’t,” he whispered hoarsely to the empty room, voice cracking with helplessness. “It’s too much. I’m too sensitive.”
The room was quiet except for the pounding of Yoongi’s heart. Every beat thudded in his ears like a drum, drowning out thought. He stood barefoot on the cold floor, wearing nothing but short T-shirt that barely skimmed the tops of his hips, Namjoon had got him this. It clung to his skin, damp with sweat and anxiety.

His fingers trembled so badly he barely managed to pull his phone closer. His fingers hovered uncertainly over the screen, heart pounding wildly. Finally, swallowing the last of his pride and fear, he typed a short, shaky message:

“Namjoon… I need help. Please.”

The wait felt endless. Every second stretched painfully as Yoongi’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, cheeks burning hot and wet with tears he didn’t try to stop.

Why is this so hard? he thought, staring at his trembling hands. ''Why does my body feel like it’s not even mine anymore?''

Then, his phone buzzed softly. Namjoon’s reply was sharp and commanding, yet somehow comforting: “I’m coming.”

Relief flooded through Yoongi, mingled with fresh anxiety. He wasn’t sure he was ready for Namjoon’s presence again—this time, it would mean surrender. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t do this alone.
He’d tried, just like Namjoon said. He wanted to be good. Wanted to prove he could take care of himself, follow instructions, earn praise. But nothing had worked. His body didn’t respond the way it should’ve. Everything was too sensitive, too sharp. Every time he touched himself, panic rose in his throat like bile. It felt wrong; so so so wrong. 

His hands curled into fists on his lap as the seconds ticked by, waiting for the knock on the door that would bring Namjoon back into his life, back into control. Yoongi could see his small dick peeking from between his thin thighs. 

The knock on the door was soft but unmistakable. Yoongi’s heart lurched painfully as he scrambled to his feet, cheeks flushed, eyes darting nervously. His hands trembled as he opened the door, revealing Namjoon’s calm, commanding gaze.

Yoongi’s heart hammered painfully in his chest as he opened the door. His cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, the heat spreading down his neck and burning his ears. He was only wearing a short, thin T-shirt that barely covered his slender frame — the fabric riding up slightly, exposing pale skin and the faint curve of his hips. His pants were gone, folded neatly beside the bed, but the vulnerability of his exposed legs made him feel raw and fragile.

Namjoon’s eyes roved over him slowly, drinking in every inch of the trembling boy standing before him. A slow, dark smile curved at the corner of his lips. “Still trembling,” he murmured, voice low and edged with sharp control. “Good. That means you’re ready.”

Yoongi’s breath caught. His fingers nervously tugged at the hem of his shirt, as if trying to pull some sort of shield around himself — but the fabric was thin and useless. Namjoon stepped closer, and the heat of his presence pressed in, overwhelming in its intensity.

“Don’t hide,” Namjoon commanded softly, reaching out to slide Yoongi’s hands away from his shirt. His fingers were firm but not rough as they lifted the hem just enough to reveal the pale skin beneath. “You’re mine, and you don’t get to hide from me.”

Yoongi’s pulse quickened, embarrassment and need warping together inside him. His small cock, already achingly hard and sensitive, pressed faintly against his lower belly beneath the shirt. Namjoon’s gaze dropped to it, dark and possessive.

“You’re so small,” Namjoon whispered, voice thick with something that made Yoongi’s cheeks burn even hotter. “Fragile and perfect. That’s why I’m going to teach you exactly how to feel everything — how to own every part of this.”

Without waiting, Namjoon’s hands slid beneath the thin fabric of the T-shirt, cool against Yoongi’s heated skin. His fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s cock through the soft material, eliciting a sharp gasp that broke from Yoongi’s lips like a plea.

Namjoon smirked. “See? You don’t need to be afraid. I’m the only one who knows how to touch you right.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched uncontrollably as Namjoon’s hand moved with deliberate, expert strokes, the fabric creating a teasing friction that was both maddening and unbearable. Tears welled in Yoongi’s eyes, blurring his vision, and he bit his lip hard to stifle the sob threatening to escape.

“I don’t know if I can…” Yoongi whispered, voice cracking with desperation.

“You can,” Namjoon growled softly, fingers tightening around him. “Because I’m here. Because you belong to me. And I’m going to make sure you never forget.”

Slowly, Namjoon slid the T-shirt up over Yoongi’s head, tossing it aside to expose his bare chest and stomach to the cold air. The sudden chill made Yoongi shiver, vulnerability washing over him in a fresh wave.

Namjoon’s hands immediately returned to his body, roaming and exploring, claiming. Yoongi’s breath grew ragged, body aching and overwhelmed under the dark weight of Namjoon’s control.

When the third orgasm finally crashed through him—deeper and more consuming than the first—Yoongi was lost, trembling and sobbing, utterly undone by the storm of sensation and possession.

Namjoon caught him as he collapsed, holding him tightly against his chest. His voice was a fierce, possessive whisper in Yoongi’s ear: “You’re addicted now. To this feeling, to me. And that’s exactly where you belong.”

At first, it had been awkward. Quiet. Careful. Something they didn’t talk about once the moment ended.

But over time, it settled into routine.

Namjoon never said it directly, but there was a rhythm—an expectation. A small, invisible line drawn through their shared days. Morning, afternoon, evening. All three. It became something Yoongi adjusted to, almost without realizing it.

The first time it happened before class, Yoongi had barely spoken. He sat on the edge of the bed in his oversized hoodie, pale legs tucked in close, as Namjoon sat beside him. His fingers shook, his breathing shallow, until Namjoon reached out without a word and helped. Afterward, Namjoon handed him a warm towel and brushed Yoongi’s damp fringe back with quiet efficiency. They both dressed for college like nothing had happened, Yoongi still lightheaded but too afraid to ask what it meant.

Soon, mornings became expected.

Sometimes, Yoongi would wake early and just wait. Sometimes Namjoon would pull him into his lap without a word and touch him until his body went boneless and dazed. No kisses. No gentleness beyond the mechanical kindness of a caretaker. Still, it left Yoongi warm. Shaky. Dependent.

After classes, it wasn’t always immediate. If they had club meetings or assignments, they’d keep to their schedule. But as soon as they were alone—behind the closed dorm door, shoes off and jackets hung—Yoongi would shift nervously, tug at his sleeve, wait. Namjoon always noticed.

“On the bed,” he’d say. Or simply, “Now.”

And Yoongi would obey.

Evening sessions were softer. Sometimes. Done in silence under dimmed lights, the tension of the day burned off through routine motion. After dinner, when the lights were low and their laptops closed, Namjoon might pull Yoongi into his bed, whisper quiet instructions, and hold him in place as his body trembled under practiced hands. No compliments. Just murmured commands and pressure until it was over.

Yoongi never asked why Namjoon continued. He didn’t know what this was, or what it made him. He only knew that it made things easier. He could focus better after. He didn’t feel as panicked in class. His body listened to him more.

Namjoon said it was necessary. Healthy. That he was behind and needed to catch up. That’s why it was okay to ask for help.

So Yoongi did. Quietly. Timidly. Sometimes just with a look. And Namjoon would take over without question, like it was the most natural part of their lives.

It became a ritual. An unspeakable thread binding them together.

Even if it confused him. Even if it sometimes left Yoongi crying quietly into his pillow, unsure what part of this was care and what part was control.

He didn’t know.

He only knew that when Namjoon touched him, he didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to try.

And that made it easier to keep going.

Weekdays had rhythm. Predictability. But weekends were something else entirely.

Without classes to break the hours apart, the days blurred—long stretches of quiet, of time alone, of soft clothes and still air. And on those days, the routine wasn’t three times a day.

Sometimes it was five.

Yoongi didn’t always keep count, but his body did. By the fourth time—fingers sore from clutching sheets, cheeks tearstained and chest heaving—he’d begin to float. Everything felt too loud. Too soft. Like his skin didn’t quite fit right. He’d curl into Namjoon’s hoodie and let himself be pulled apart again.

Sometimes Namjoon was quiet when he touched him. Other times he whispered things that made Yoongi’s stomach twist in ways he didn’t understand. About how soft he was. How good he looked crying. How perfect it was that he couldn’t stop needing this now. How it meant his body was learning to submit, to follow, to heal.

One Sunday afternoon, after Yoongi had collapsed into the bed for the third time before lunch, he turned to Namjoon, eyes glassy and voice soft.

“Am I getting better?” he asked, breath trembling. “Is this… helping?”

Namjoon didn’t hesitate. “Yes, baby. You’re doing so well. Better every day.”

Yoongi blinked at the ceiling, the praise blooming painfully in his chest. He didn’t know what better was supposed to feel like. He still cried sometimes without knowing why. Still felt shame coiling low in his stomach after it was over. Still had trouble looking in mirrors. But if Namjoon said he was healing, he believed him.

Because Namjoon was the one who kept track of his body when Yoongi couldn’t.

On weekends, Namjoon didn’t even wait for Yoongi to ask anymore. He would press his palm flat to Yoongi’s thigh in the morning, right as the boy stirred from sleep. By the time they’d had breakfast, Yoongi’s legs would already be shaking again.

He never told Namjoon no. He didn’t want to.

It felt like love. Or maybe it felt like safety. Or maybe, he thought late at night when the dorm was too quiet and his body still pulsed from being touched, it felt like surrender.

“Just let me guide you,” Namjoon had said once, mouth near his ear as he stroked him through his third orgasm of the day. “You don’t have to worry about anything else. I’ll make sure you never fall behind again.”

And Yoongi had believed him.

Because even when his body ached, even when he felt wrung out and useless, Namjoon still looked at him like he was something important.

Something worth handling.

Namjoon sat at the edge of the bed, towel draped loosely over one shoulder, watching Yoongi curl into himself like he was trying to disappear into the sheets.

He looked small—eyes glassy, lips bitten pink, skin flushed and damp with leftover adrenaline. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. He wasn’t crying, but he wasn’t far from it either.

Namjoon reached out and gently pushed the sweat-damp hair off his forehead. “Why are you shaking?” he asked, voice low. Not soft, exactly—just steady.

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. His fingers gripped the blanket tighter. “I don’t… know. I just—” He swallowed hard. “I thought it’d get easier.”

Namjoon was quiet for a moment, then leaned closer. “It is getting easier. Your body’s adjusting. You’ve gone years without learning how to handle any of this, Yoongi. Of course it’s going to take time.”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked to him, uncertain. “But… why this much? Why every day?”

Namjoon gave a slow, patient smile. “Because you started late. Your body has a backlog of tension and hormones it never learned how to release. And that builds up, Yoongi. It clogs everything. Emotionally. Physically.”

He placed a hand on Yoongi’s chest, just over his heart. “You’re getting overwhelmed because you never had a safe place to feel things. That’s what this is. That’s why we do this. So your body learns what to do. So your mind can start letting go.”

Yoongi blinked rapidly. “I feel like I’m broken sometimes.”

“You’re not broken,” Namjoon said firmly. “You’re behind. But you’re catching up. Every time you let me help you—every time you stop fighting it—you’re a little closer to being okay.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched. He looked down at his own hands, like he wasn’t sure they belonged to him.

“Is that why I feel so… tired after? And shaky?”

Namjoon nodded. “That’s your body processing everything it’s been storing. The fear, the shame, the confusion—it's not your fault. You were never taught what was normal. But I can teach you.”

He tilted Yoongi’s chin up until their eyes met. “But only if you keep going. You can’t stop now. Not when you’re finally making progress.”

Yoongi’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What if I can’t do it on my own?”

Namjoon’s thumb brushed lightly across his cheek. “Then you ask me. Every time. You don’t need to do it alone anymore.”

And despite everything—despite the confusion, the ache, the quiet doubt curled under his ribs—Yoongi nodded.

Because Namjoon always made it sound like the only path forward.

And part of Yoongi still hoped that maybe, just maybe, it was.

Namjoon folded laundry with clinical precision, stacking each shirt into crisp rectangles before setting them in Yoongi’s drawer. The soft hum of the dryer buzzed in the background, and a half-read textbook sat open on his desk, annotated in perfect handwriting. From the outside, he looked composed. Responsible. Like a student who had it all together.

Behind him, Yoongi lay curled on the bed, knees drawn up, face buried in the hoodie Namjoon had given him two weeks ago. His body trembled beneath the soft fabric, too exhausted to move, too raw to think.

“You should rest,” Namjoon said without turning around. “We’ll go again later.”

Yoongi flinched but didn’t argue. His fingers twisted in the blanket.

Namjoon finished folding the last shirt and moved to his desk, flipping a page in his economics workbook. His pen scratched across the paper in smooth, practiced lines. Calm. Focused.

But after ten minutes, he stood, walked back to the bed, and crouched beside Yoongi.

“You’re not drinking enough water,” he said, voice level. “You know how important that is for your recovery. Sit up.”

Yoongi obeyed automatically, letting Namjoon press a bottle to his lips. He sipped until Namjoon was satisfied, then sank back against the pillows.

“Good boy,” Namjoon murmured, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “You’re doing well. You’re just tired.”

Yoongi’s eyes fluttered. “Do you ever get tired?”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “Of course I do. I just manage it better.”

That answer sank like a stone in Yoongi’s chest. He knew Namjoon had classes, exams, deadlines. Knew he still went to the gym every morning, still cleaned the room twice a week, still ran errands without complaint. And yet, he never once forgot to check on Yoongi. Never forgot the schedule. The ritual. The expectation.

It made Yoongi feel grateful. And guilty. And trapped.

He watched Namjoon move effortlessly through the space—watering the plant by the window, replying to messages on his phone, switching playlists like it was just another normal afternoon.

It was normal. To him.

Namjoon never raised his voice. Never demanded thanks. He just... expected. Quietly. Constantly.

“You’re getting better,” Namjoon said again, more like a confirmation than reassurance. “But we have to stay consistent. Setbacks happen when you stop too soon.”

Yoongi nodded slowly. His limbs were still sore. His throat felt tight. But the last thing he wanted was to disappoint him.

Namjoon sat beside him, pulled the blanket higher around Yoongi’s shoulders.

“I know it’s a lot,” he said. “But I’m here. I’ll always take care of you. You don’t have to worry about anything else.”

And Yoongi believed him—because Namjoon sounded like the only truth he had left.

Yoongi stared at the glowing screen of his phone, thumb hovering over the clock app. His morning class started in fifteen minutes.

His stomach twisted.

He hadn’t gotten out of bed yet. His legs still trembled from earlier—his second “session” of the morning. Namjoon had left him curled on the mattress, hoodie half-off, skin too sensitive to touch, eyes blinking slow like he wasn’t quite back in his own body.

“You’re not going today,” Namjoon said simply as he stepped back into the room, balancing two steaming mugs of tea.

Yoongi’s breath caught. “But I—I already missed class last week.”

Namjoon set the mugs down and gave him a look that was calm, unwavering. “And you weren’t ready then either.”

Yoongi sat up a little, wincing at the pull in his hips. “I’ll fall behind…”

“You won’t.” Namjoon knelt beside the bed, voice soft but firm. “What’s more important—forcing yourself to sit in a cold classroom pretending you’re okay, or letting your body heal the way it needs to?”

Yoongi looked away.

“You were shaking so bad you could barely walk this morning. That’s not strength, baby. That’s your nervous system screaming at you.” Namjoon reached out, brushed a thumb under his eye where a tear had dried. “You’ve spent your whole life pushing through pain. That’s not healing. That’s surviving.”

Yoongi swallowed thickly. “But other people…”

“Other people don’t matter right now. You do. And you’re mine to take care of, remember?” Namjoon’s voice dropped just a touch, warm and low. “Let me do that.”

The words slid into Yoongi’s chest like a weight, heavy and strangely comforting.

Namjoon stood, walked to the desk, and pulled Yoongi’s laptop closed with a click. “I’ll email your professor. Say you’re dealing with something medical. No one needs to know what exactly. That’s private.”

Yoongi curled deeper into the blanket, heart thudding in conflict. He felt guilt coil in his gut—guilt for skipping, for needing help, for letting his body fall apart. But at the same time… it felt good not to be expected to cope.

Namjoon always made it sound like Yoongi was doing something brave by giving in.

“Come on,” Namjoon said, holding out the tea. “Back under the covers. We’ll rest. Maybe do some breathing exercises later. And if you feel okay by afternoon… we can continue.”

Yoongi took the mug, fingers trembling as their hands brushed.

Namjoon smiled. “See? That’s already progress.”

Yoongi looked down at the tea, too tired to argue. And deep down, some part of him believed Namjoon. Because Namjoon always sounded like he knew better.

And because letting him decide was easier than deciding for himself.

It started with small things.

“No caffeine,” Namjoon said one morning, plucking the can of cold brew from Yoongi’s hand before he could take a sip. “You get jittery enough after sessions. Your nervous system’s still fragile.”

Yoongi blinked. “But I drank this before—”

“And look where that got you,” Namjoon interrupted gently, tossing the can into the trash. “Trust me.”

Yoongi didn’t argue. He never did.

Then came the screen time rule. “No phone after nine. Blue light makes it harder for your body to reset. You need undisturbed sleep to stabilize your hormones. I’ll keep it with mine overnight.”

He said it with a smile, always soft, always careful. And Yoongi nodded, even when his stomach fluttered with hesitation. Even when his hands felt empty at night.

By the end of the week, Namjoon had added scheduled hydration, regulated mealtimes, and quiet hours. “Noise overstimulates you,” he explained. “Even music. Your body’s in a sensitive phase—it’s like post-op recovery. We have to treat it that way.”

Yoongi watched the new rules scribbled neatly in a notebook Namjoon kept on the desk, bullet points organized under Yoongi’s Healing Protocol.

At first, they made him feel safe. Someone was watching. Someone cared.

But soon, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a choice that hadn’t been checked against Namjoon first.

“Why are we doing this every day?” he asked one evening, voice small as he sat with a hot pack curled in his lap, body sore from that morning’s session.

Namjoon looked up from his laptop, calm as ever. “Because your threshold is still unstable. Skipping a day could send you backward.”

“But sometimes I feel—”

“Tired?” Namjoon cut in, rising to sit beside him. “Of course. That’s normal. Growth hurts, Yoongi. Recovery hurts. But that doesn’t mean you stop.”

Yoongi bit the inside of his cheek. “What if I mess it up?”

Namjoon leaned close, voice velvet-soft. “You won’t. Because I’m here to keep you on track.”

That night, Namjoon added one more rule.

“You don’t need to worry about clothes inside the dorm anymore,” he said, folding away Yoongi’s sweatpants after the shower. “Fabric overstimulates your skin. It distracts from the work we’re doing.”

Yoongi hesitated, arms crossed over his chest.

Namjoon’s hand slid up his spine, soothing and steady. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Yoongi nodded slowly.

“Then let me care for you properly.”

And so Yoongi stayed bare beneath the blankets, watching Namjoon organize his textbooks and meal prep for the week—like a normal student with a normal life.

Except he wasn’t normal. Not anymore. Not in the way Namjoon made him feel like his body needed managing. Correcting. Guiding.

And part of him believed it. Because the rules made sense when Namjoon said them. They always did.

Namjoon sat at the desk, the soft glow of his lamp casting long shadows across the neat pages of his notebook. He looked up as Yoongi shuffled into the room, shoulders tight, eyes flickering with quiet hesitation.

“I think it’s time we start tracking your progress,” Namjoon said, voice calm but firm. “For consistency. To see what’s working, what’s not.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed. “Tracking?”

“Yes,” Namjoon replied, tapping the notebook. “We’ll keep a journal. Every day you write down how you feel—your energy, your mood, your body’s reactions. We’ll use it to adjust your schedule, your care.”

Yoongi swallowed, suddenly aware of how much Namjoon controlled the space around him—his body, his time, his feelings.

“I don’t know what to write,” he whispered.

“That’s okay. I’ll guide you. You don’t have to do it alone.” Namjoon’s eyes softened, but the weight behind his words pressed down like iron chains. “It’s important, Yoongi. You’ve missed so much time, and your body’s still learning.”

Yoongi nodded slowly, the journal feeling like another link in the chain tying him to Namjoon’s care.

Each evening, Yoongi found himself sitting with the open notebook, pen trembling in his fingers as Namjoon’s steady voice reminded him, “Be honest. No hiding.”

Writing became a ritual. The small details—the soreness after a session, the brief moments of calm, the creeping waves of anxiety—were recorded with quiet, reluctant obedience.

Namjoon reviewed the entries with meticulous attention, offering corrections, suggestions, and sometimes gentle reminders. “You missed noting the tightness in your chest yesterday,” he pointed out once. “That’s important.”

Yoongi’s chest tightened just thinking about it.

But somewhere beneath the exhaustion and the mounting pressure, he craved the structure. The certainty that Namjoon’s watchful eyes and unwavering rules provided.

Because without them, the chaos inside him—confusion, fear, loneliness—was unbearable.

Namjoon’s control wasn’t just discipline. It was survival.

It was just one small slip.

Yoongi had stayed up past nine, scrolling through his phone in the dim light, craving the quiet distraction it gave him. The blue glow warmed his face, and for a moment, the weight pressing on his chest eased. But when Namjoon entered the room the next morning, calm and composed as ever, his eyes flicked immediately to the phone on Yoongi’s nightstand.

“No phone after nine,” Namjoon said softly, voice almost gentle but edged with disappointment.

Yoongi’s heart thudded painfully. “I—I just… I needed to distract myself.”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t harden; instead, he sat beside Yoongi, hands folded neatly. “I understand. It’s hard. But you promised to follow the rules. You’re still fragile.”

Yoongi’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”

Namjoon’s gaze was steady, almost clinical. “It’s not just about the rules, Yoongi. It’s about your health—your future. Every time you break them, your body struggles more. You set yourself back.”

The words settled over Yoongi like a cold fog.

“You want to get better, don’t you?” Namjoon asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Then you have to trust me. This isn’t punishment. It’s care.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, blinking back tears he didn’t want Namjoon to see.

“I’m not angry,” Namjoon added, voice softer now. “But I am concerned. I worry because I see how much you want to improve. And every misstep… it makes that harder.”

Yoongi nodded, guilt knotting inside him.

Namjoon reached out, brushing a trembling hand from Yoongi’s cheek. “I’m here to help you, always. But you have to meet me halfway.”

“I’ll do better,” Yoongi whispered.

Namjoon smiled faintly. “Good. Because you’re not alone in this. And I can’t do it without you.”

The room was quiet except for Yoongi’s shallow breaths. Somewhere beneath Namjoon’s calm words, a silent pressure built—one Yoongi couldn’t quite name but felt pressing, binding him ever tighter.

Because failing wasn’t just disappointing—it was a risk to the fragile balance Namjoon promised to protect.

Namjoon’s control wasn’t loud or violent. It was quiet, deliberate, and unrelenting — a soft cage built of rules, routines, and whispered warnings.

He didn’t need to raise his voice to bend Yoongi’s will.

After that night with the broken phone rule, Namjoon introduced a new layer of oversight: the daily check-in.

Every morning, before Yoongi could leave the room, Namjoon would sit with his clipboard — a silent judge — and ask, “How are you feeling? Any discomfort? Any cravings or urges you’ve resisted?”

Yoongi’s answers were measured, filtered, but Namjoon’s gaze saw right through the cracks. A too-long pause, a too-quick breath — these would earn a patient but pointed question, always framed with concern. “Tell me, Yoongi. It’s okay to be honest. I’m here to help.”

But honesty meant exposing weakness, and weakness meant more sessions, more restrictions, more time under Namjoon’s watchful eye.

Namjoon tracked everything: sleep patterns, food intake, mood swings, even Yoongi’s small, trembling responses when Namjoon’s fingers brushed his skin during their ‘healing sessions.’

He justified every boundary as necessary for Yoongi’s health, but they built a maze with no exit.

When Yoongi’s anxiety flared, Namjoon would soothe him with whispered reassurances — “I’m the only one who can keep you safe,” — while tightening his grip, reminding Yoongi of how much he depended on him.

Yoongi sometimes caught himself shrinking beneath Namjoon’s calm eyes, a fragile thing trembling at the edges of control.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” Namjoon whispered once again, lips brushing Yoongi’s temple. “I’ll guide you, always.”

And Yoongi believed him.

Because surrender felt easier than fighting.

Because the cage was lined with care.

Because Namjoon was the only constant in his fractured world.

Namjoon’s voice was calm but sharp as he reviewed Yoongi’s latest work, finger tracing the lines of uneven handwriting. “You’re trying, but sloppy effort like this won’t cut it. You know better.”

Yoongi’s chest tightened, the familiar sting of shame blooming red-hot in his cheeks. He lowered his eyes, voice barely audible. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

Namjoon’s gaze softened, but the edge in his tone remained. “Good. Because I expect more from you. You’re capable of it. Don’t waste my time—or your own potential.”

That balance — cutting critique wrapped in reluctant praise — was Namjoon’s weapon. It kept Yoongi off-balance, desperate to prove himself worthy of approval, even as the doubt gnawed at him.

Later, in the dim light of the living room, Namjoon settled into the couch with a soft click of the remote. A quiet movie played, colors flickering across his face.

Yoongi sat on the floor nearby, heart hammering as Namjoon guided his hands through the motions of their “healthy sessions.” The contrast was jarring: casual ease in Namjoon’s eyes as he watched the screen, and tense concentration as he controlled Yoongi’s every movement.

“Good,” Namjoon murmured, voice low, eyes never leaving the TV. “Relax. Let it happen.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, overwhelmed by the conflicting sensations — the cold hum of the room, the warm pressure of Namjoon’s touch, the faint glow from the screen casting shadows over their skin.

Namjoon’s words dripped with casual dominance. “You’re learning. Getting stronger. You want to be better, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Yoongi whispered, voice fragile.

“That’s why I’m here. To guide you. To make sure you don’t break.”

Yoongi’s body trembled, tears prickling behind his eyelids, tangled emotions swirling in the quiet room.

Namjoon’s hand tightened slightly, a silent reminder: this control was both care and captivity.

Because Yoongi knew, deep down, there was no escaping Namjoon’s watchful eyes — not yet, not ever.

One morning Yoongi’s eyelids fluttered open, the familiar haze of sleep still clinging to him, but something was already stirring beneath the surface — a soft, insistent pressure, a warmth that wasn’t his own. Before he could fully register, Namjoon’s hands were there, gentle yet unyielding, moving over his skin with practiced ease.

“Morning,” Namjoon whispered, voice low and steady like a tide pulling Yoongi under. “Time for your session.”

Yoongi’s breath caught, a flicker of panic mingling with a dull ache of confusion. He wasn’t fully awake, couldn’t yet think clearly — but Namjoon was already guiding him, coaxing him through the motions with a calm that left no room for protest.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Namjoon murmured, fingers tracing the curve of Yoongi’s ribs. “I’m here. Always.”

The words wrapped around Yoongi like chains disguised as comfort. He wanted to say no, to push back, but the fog of sleep dulled his defenses.

As Namjoon’s hands worked steadily, Yoongi’s mind spun — part of him aching to resist, part drowning in the warmth of Namjoon’s touch, the soft dominance that claimed him without force.

“Good,” Namjoon breathed against his ear. “You’re doing so well. I’m proud of you.”

But pride came with expectations — a promise Yoongi could never quite fulfill on his own.

Namjoon’s presence blurred the line between care and control, turning every touch into a command, every whispered word a tether tightening around Yoongi’s will.

By the time Yoongi was fully awake, Namjoon had already set the pace for the day — one where Yoongi’s body, his needs, even his very thoughts, were no longer his own.

And in that quiet domination, Yoongi found himself slipping deeper into dependence, caught between fear and a twisted kind of relief.

Because Namjoon’s control was the only certainty in the storm.

Yoongi lay tangled in his sheets, the weight of Namjoon’s presence still lingering like a shadow over his skin. His mind was a storm of confusion — part of him shivered with shame and fear, but another part, darker and more conflicted, craved the touch that both comforted and controlled him.

‘Why do I feel like this?’ he wondered, eyes fixed on the ceiling as the morning light crept through the curtains. ‘I’m scared, but... I want him. I hate how much I need him.’

The shame twisted in his gut, a knot tightening with every heartbeat. He tried to push the thoughts away, tried to remind himself that this wasn’t real care — it was manipulation, control disguised as kindness.

But Namjoon was everywhere. In the soft voice that told him he was “doing well,” in the hands that moved over his body before he was fully awake, in the steady gaze that never left him.

“How do I fight someone who knows me better than I know myself?” Yoongi’s voice was barely a whisper in the quiet room.

He tried to imagine a life without Namjoon’s watchful eyes — without the sessions, the rules, the constant pressure to be “better.” But that image slipped away like smoke, leaving only cold emptiness.

And so he stayed trapped — caught between fear and desire, dependence and resistance, the aching need for freedom and the crushing weight of Namjoon’s hold.

Because surrender was easier than fighting alone.

Because Namjoon had made sure Yoongi’s world was a cage lined with his voice, his touch, his unyielding control.

And Yoongi wasn’t sure where Namjoon ended — or where he began.

The next day was quiet. Namjoon had early classes, and Yoongi spent most of the morning organizing his books, trying not to overthink the night before. He hadn’t imagined Namjoon’s voice that close. He hadn’t imagined the way the air had felt heavier around him.

By the time Namjoon returned mid-afternoon, Yoongi had practically convinced himself it was normal roommate stuff.

Until Namjoon shut the door behind him with a soft click, and the air changed again.

Yoongi looked up from his bed.

Namjoon was already walking over—slow, calm, confident. He tossed his keys into a bowl on the desk and said nothing, eyes dragging down Yoongi’s body. Yoongi felt it like a slow lick.

“Didn’t you have orientation?” Namjoon asked.

“Yeah,” Yoongi murmured. “It ended early.”

“Good.” Namjoon stepped closer. “Means you had time to clean up your side.”

Yoongi blinked. “Did I… forget something?”

Namjoon raised a brow and pointed at the wrinkled shirt hanging off Yoongi’s chair. “Messy.”

“Oh.” Yoongi scrambled to grab it. “Sorry, I—”

Namjoon was suddenly right behind him.

Yoongi froze.

“Do you always apologize this much, baby?” Namjoon asked softly.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m teasing,” Namjoon said, voice smooth and low. “But maybe you do need a little correction.”

Yoongi turned pink immediately.

Namjoon chuckled. “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.” Then he stepped around, sat on the edge of his bed, and patted his thigh. “Come here.”

Yoongi stared. “What?”

“Lap,” Namjoon said, smiling. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Yoongi’s stomach twisted. He moved slowly—half in a daze—and perched awkwardly beside Namjoon.

Namjoon clicked his tongue.

“I said lap, baby,” he murmured. “Not next to me.”

There was no room to misunderstand. Yoongi blushed hard, but he obeyed—climbing nervously onto Namjoon’s lap. His knees pressed against Namjoon’s thigh, and his hoodie slipped slightly, exposing the soft slope of his shoulder.

“See?” Namjoon said, wrapping an arm around Yoongi’s waist. “You do know how to listen.”

Yoongi felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“You’re so light,” Namjoon mused. “So small. You let anyone hold you like this?”

“No,” Yoongi whispered.

“Good.”

Namjoon’s hand slid down—palm hot and wide over Yoongi’s lower back—and he gave a soft squeeze to the underside of his ass. Yoongi's short boxers already slipping in between his ass.

Yoongi made a sound. Barely audible. A sharp intake of breath.

“See?” Namjoon murmured, lips brushing close to Yoongi’s ear. “I knew you’d be sensitive.”

And before Yoongi could process it, Namjoon brought his hand down—smack—right against the curve of Yoongi’s ass.

It wasn’t hard. Not really.

But Yoongi jerked, a sound caught in his throat, face burning.

Namjoon’s hand rested there now, possessive.

“You okay, baby?”

Yoongi nodded quickly, heart hammering.

Another soft slap. A little firmer. Yoongi gasped, thighs tightening on instinct.

“Mm. You like that?” Namjoon purred.

Yoongi couldn’t speak.

Namjoon leaned forward, voice like velvet. “You ever let someone touch you like this?”

Yoongi shook his head.

Namjoon smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

He brought his hand down again—firmer, this time. The rhythm wasn’t punishing. It was controlled. Teasing. Every strike followed by a warm palm pressing into the heat it left behind.

Yoongi bit his lip hard.

“Such a good boy,” Namjoon whispered. “So quiet. So easy to hold.”

Yoongi whimpered.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” Namjoon said, voice thick with hunger now. “So soft on my lap. I could eat you alive.”

Yoongi shivered.

Namjoon reached up with his free hand and brushed Yoongi’s lip with his thumb.

“You wanna be good for me, baby?”

Yoongi, dazed, nodded.

Namjoon smiled, slow and dark. “Then open.”

Yoongi hesitated—but parted his lips. Namjoon pushed his thumb gently inside.

“Mm. That’s it,” he praised. “Such a pretty little mouth.”

Yoongi suckled automatically, cheeks pink, thighs twitching where they straddled Namjoon’s lap. The heat between them pulsed like a current.

Namjoon’s voice dropped to a growl.

“I bet you’d suck something else just as sweet, wouldn’t you?”

Yoongi sat on Namjoon’s lap, the heat of his touch seeping through the thin fabric of his worn underwear. His breaths were shallow, heart hammering with a cocktail of nerves and something darker—curiosity mixed with helplessness.

Namjoon’s hand slid down from Yoongi’s back, brushing lightly over the waistband of his boxers.

“Too warm for sweats, huh?” Namjoon murmured, voice low and commanding. Without waiting, his fingers hooked under the elastic and tugged gently.

Yoongi’s skin prickled with awareness as his underwear slipped down his thighs, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

Namjoon’s eyes flickered with something sharp—ownership. He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of Yoongi’s ear.

“Good boys don’t hide from me,” he whispered. “I want to see all of you.”

Yoongi’s cheeks flamed bright pink, but he didn’t resist.

Namjoon’s hands roamed, tracing the delicate lines of Yoongi’s ribs, the sharp curve of his hips under Yoongi’s hoodie. His fingers paused at the swell of Yoongi’s ass, squeezing possessively.

“You’re mine,” Namjoon said simply. “No matter what you think.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, the weight of Namjoon’s words pressing down on him.

Yoongi shook his head, breath hitching.

Namjoon smiled, dark and slow. “You’ll learn. I’ll teach you everything.”

The promise hung in the air between them, heavy and dangerous.

Yoongi’s breathing slowed, the steady rhythm of sleep washing over him like a fragile tide. Nestled in Namjoon’s lap, his small frame relaxed, limbs loose and unguarded. His pale skin flushed faintly from the heat and exertion, pink nipples just visible beneath the thin fabric still clinging to him.

Namjoon’s eyes darkened as he watched the softness of Yoongi’s face—the slight parting of lips, the flutter of lashes, the way his collarbones stood out sharp and delicate beneath his skin. So innocent, so unaware.

He couldn’t resist.

Carefully, Namjoon shifted, pulling his phone from his pocket. The glow of the screen illuminated the curve of Yoongi’s throat, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

Click. A photo.

Namjoon’s fingers traced the curve of Yoongi’s jaw softly, admiring how vulnerable and perfect he looked like this.

Click. Another.

Yoongi’s legs, thin and pale, folded awkwardly against Namjoon’s thigh. The soft pink of his inner thighs caught the light.

Click. And another.

Namjoon’s breath hitched. His possession of Yoongi was more than just physical—it was in these moments where Yoongi was utterly his, unaware, defenseless.

Click.

A photo of Yoongi’s exposed skin, the faint pink flush around his nipples, the delicate sharpness of his collarbones peeking through his hoodie.

Namjoon smiled—a possessive, dark smile.

“This is mine,” he whispered. “All of it.”

He put the phone away and leaned down to press a lingering kiss to the top of Yoongi’s head.

Yoongi shifted slightly but didn’t wake.

Namjoon’s hand settled possessively on his hip, his heart pounding in the quiet room.

Namjoon cradled Yoongi carefully in his arms, lifting his fragile frame with surprising strength. Yoongi’s sleep-softened body rested against him like a feather, his skin warm beneath Namjoon’s fingertips despite the chill of the room.

“Shh,” Namjoon murmured, moving toward the bed. “Let me take care of you.”

The mattress creaked softly as Namjoon lowered Yoongi down, arranging the thin blanket over him. He paused, watching Yoongi’s bare skin gleam faintly in the dim light—the pale softness of his chest, the slight rise and fall with each breath.

Namjoon’s fingers trailed along Yoongi’s collarbone, lingering over the smooth expanse of skin.

“You’re mine,” Namjoon whispered, voice low and possessive. “You’ll learn what that means soon enough.”

Yoongi stirred, eyelids fluttering but still too sleepy to open. Namjoon’s thumb brushed gently against his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw.

“Sleep well, baby,” Namjoon said, pressing a soft kiss to Yoongi’s temple.

But even as Yoongi’s breathing deepened, Namjoon’s mind raced—already imagining what was to come. The control, the power, the delicate balance between dominance and care.

He settled beside Yoongi, fingers entwining with his, holding him close as the night stretched on.

Namjoon’s eyes never left Yoongi as he lay curled on the bed—his small frame folded with knees drawn tightly to his chest, thighs slightly spread beneath the thin blanket. The soft pink flush of Yoongi’s skin was even more delicate in the dim light, nipples pale and puckered, and the vulnerable curve of his inner thighs exposed just enough to catch Namjoon’s hungry gaze.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked downward, resting on the curve of Yoongi’s hips and the thin line where his underwear had slipped low, barely concealing the smallness beneath. Yoongi’s body was fragile—slim thighs, pale skin like porcelain, and yes, the evidence of his delicate size pressed lightly against the fabric.

Namjoon’s fingers itched to touch, to explore what was his, to mark every inch of that fragile beauty.

Namjoon gently peeled Yoongi’s clothes away, slow and deliberate. Pale skin revealed beneath, creamy and soft, untouched. Pink nipples stiffened in the chill, matching the flushed head of his small cock and the sweet, bare pink of his hole. Yoongi stirred, unaware, breath hitching as Namjoon’s fingers grazed low.

Namjoon’s breath hitched. The image before him was a secret possession—something private, fragile, and utterly his.

Carefully, he reached for his phone again, not wanting to disturb Yoongi’s fragile rest.

Click.

The camera captured Yoongi’s exposed skin framed by the blanket, knees pressed close to the chest, and the pale, tender expanse of his thighs, flushed a soft pink.

Click.

Namjoon adjusted slightly, angling the lens to focus on the delicate line from Yoongi’s ribs down to his hips—so thin, so small, so exquisitely vulnerable.

Click.

Another photo—Yoongi’s soft face turned slightly away, eyes closed, lips parted as if dreaming.

Namjoon’s fingers trembled slightly as he lowered the phone.

“This is mine,” he whispered, voice thick with possessiveness.

He pressed a lingering kiss to Yoongi’s temple, fingertips brushing gently over the sharp collarbones.

Holding the moment, Namjoon felt the weight of ownership settle deeper, a dark thrill coursing through him.

Namjoon eased Yoongi’s thighs apart, careful not to wake him. The stretch revealed everything—his soft, flushed cock nestled against his skin, and the delicate pink of his hole twitching in the cool air. Yoongi whimpered faintly in his sleep, legs limp, as Namjoon took in the sight, possessive and silent.

Namjoon’s hands slid down to Yoongi’s soft thighs, gripping and spreading them wider. He cupped Yoongi’s plush ass, thumbs sinking into the pale flesh as he pulled it apart, exposing the small, flushed hole nestled between. Yoongi’s breath hitched in his sleep, body twitching, unaware of the gaze devouring him.

Now, with the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows over Yoongi’s bare form, Namjoon raised his phone. He took slow, deliberate pictures—each frame capturing Yoongi’s pale thighs, pink skin adorning his asshole, and the vulnerable curve of his body.

Now, with Yoongi resting peacefully, Namjoon gently wrapped his hand around his soft cock, warm and small in his palm. He pressed record, watching as Yoongi’s body responded on its own—cock twitching, slowly hardening, breath catching in a quiet, dreamy sigh.

He cradled Yoongi’s cock, barely using pressure—just the heat of his palm and the slow glide of his thumb tracing up the soft length. Yoongi twitched slightly, a faint sound escaping his parted lips.

And then, like magic responding to a familiar touch, Yoongi’s cock began to stiffen in Namjoon’s hand. It pulsed faintly, growing harder with each second. His breathing changed—shallower, softer, his body arching the tiniest bit, chasing something even in his sleep.

Namjoon’s voice was a whisper, not meant to wake him. “That’s it, baby… even your body wants me.”

He kept recording, reverent and slow, capturing every second of Yoongi’s quiet, helpless arousal—proof of trust, of how beautifully Yoongi responded, even in dreams.

Yoongi shifted under Namjoon's touch, a faint whimper catching in his throat as his lashes fluttered. The growing heat around his cock, the pressure—firm but familiar—dragged him slowly from sleep. His thighs trembled faintly, his body recognizing the rhythm before his mind did.

Namjoon leaned closer, one hand still wrapped gently around Yoongi’s now fully hard cock, His breathing had deepened, hand working Yoongi’s cock in slow, reverent strokes, hips tightening with restraint, focused entirely on the way Yoongi gasped, the way his small body shivered with every careful touch.

Yoongi stirred beneath Namjoon’s steady touch, his eyes fluttering open to the dim glow of the room. His breath came in soft, uncertain gasps, caught between sleep and wakefulness. The lingering warmth of Namjoon’s hand on his thigh sent a shiver curling through him—part fear, part something he didn’t yet understand.

His cheeks flushed a deeper pink, matching the faint blush of his skin that Namjoon had traced so carefully. Yoongi’s gaze darted away, avoiding Namjoon’s intense, watchful eyes.

“I… I don’t know what this is,” Yoongi whispered, voice barely audible. “Why do I feel… like this?”

Namjoon’s smile was slow, a mixture of satisfaction and something possessive.

“That’s the start,” Namjoon said softly. “Confusion, curiosity. You’re beginning to feel what I see—what I want. You’re fragile and shy, but inside you, there’s something else. Something waiting.”

Yoongi’s fingers twitched nervously, his body tense but unable to pull away. The thought of being claimed, owned, even like this—tentative and unknown—stirred a flicker of something deep inside him. It was terrifying. And yet… it was magnetic.

Namjoon leaned down, brushing a gentle kiss to Yoongi’s forehead.

“You don’t have to understand now,” he murmured. “Just trust me. I’ll take care of you.”

And as Yoongi’s eyelids fluttered closed again, a reluctant part of him wanted to believe that was enough.

Namjoon’s fingers tightened just slightly on Yoongi’s thigh—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him who was in control. Yoongi’s skin was so soft under his touch, almost fragile, and that fragility stirred something possessive deep inside Namjoon.

“Look at me,” Namjoon said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Yoongi’s forehead. When Yoongi’s eyes met his, wide and uncertain, Namjoon’s voice dropped to a low, commanding tone. “You don’t have to be scared.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, lips trembling. “I… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Namjoon smiled, a slow, confident curve that made Yoongi’s heart race. “You’re going to learn. Step by step. Right now, all I want is for you to trust me—to let me take care of you.”

The words were simple, but they carried a weight that pressed gently yet firmly on Yoongi’s chest. His small frame trembled, a mixture of anxiety and something that felt dangerously close to desire.

Namjoon’s hand moved down to cup Yoongi’s hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles. “You’re mine now. That means I protect you, and in return, you obey. That’s the balance.”

Yoongi bit his lip, eyes flickering with confusion and longing. “Obey?”

Namjoon nodded, leaning closer so his breath warmed Yoongi’s cheek. “Yes. Obey me, and you’ll find there’s safety in it—even pleasure.”

The shy flush on Yoongi’s cheeks deepened as he processed the promise hidden behind those words.

Namjoon’s lips brushed the shell of Yoongi’s ear. “I’m going to show you everything, Yoongi. Who I am. What I want. And how good it can feel to surrender.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, a fragile ‘yes’ whispering past his lips before he could stop it.

Namjoon smiled wider, satisfaction and hunger blending in his dark eyes.

“Good boy,” he murmured. “You’re already learning.”

Namjoon’s fingers drifted lower, brushing Yoongi’s small, trembling cock. Yoongi’s breath hitched sharply, eyes widening in surprise and something like panic. His whole body was so fragile, so exposed beneath Namjoon’s possessive touch.

“Shh,” Namjoon murmured, his voice both soothing and firm. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, lips parted. His cheeks burned bright pink, matching the flush that colored his nipples and the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. The small cock beneath Namjoon’s palm twitched involuntarily, and Namjoon smirked.

“You’ve always had this,” Namjoon said, voice low, eyes darkening with hunger. “That craving. That need to take and give pleasure with your mouth.”

Yoongi’s gaze flickered away, embarrassed but unable to deny the truth. His shy oral fixation was something he’d hidden, even from himself—something Namjoon knew how to draw out without breaking him.

Namjoon’s hand came up to grip Yoongi’s chin, tilting his head to meet his eyes again. “You’re small, delicate—half the size of me. But that makes you perfect. Perfect to be owned, to be teased.”

Yoongi’s knees trembled, pressed against Namjoon’s thigh as he felt the overwhelming heat of being watched, touched, claimed.

“You’ll learn to obey, baby,” Namjoon whispered, voice dropping an octave. “To take my words and my hands, to beg for what I give. And I’ll make sure you never forget who owns you.”

Yoongi’s lips parted, barely a whisper: “Yes…”

Namjoon’s smile deepened. “Good. That’s the start.”

He leaned down to press a slow, possessive kiss to Yoongi’s mouth, tasting the shy, tentative surrender in the kiss. Their first kiss.

Namjoon’s fingers lingered at Yoongi’s jaw, tilting his head so their eyes locked. His voice dropped low, laced with a teasing edge that sent a shiver through Yoongi’s spine. Phone long forgotten, camera recording the ceiling and slick sounds of their kissing. 

“You’re so small,” Namjoon said, voice slow and deliberate. “So fragile and pink, like you don’t belong anywhere but right here—under us, waiting for our touch.”

Yoongi’s cheeks flamed with heat, part embarrassment, part something deeper he wasn’t ready to name.

Namjoon smirked, sensing the flush. “Look at you—barely more than a boy, barely enough to fill my hand. And yet, you act like you could deny me.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not… I’m not like you.”

Namjoon chuckled darkly, tracing the edge of Yoongi’s underwear. “No, you’re not. You’re weaker. Smaller. Perfect to be taken, used… owned.”

The words hit Yoongi like a punch—harsh but twisted with something magnetic. He squirmed under Namjoon’s gaze, both humiliated and inexplicably drawn.

“Don’t look away,” Namjoon commanded softly. “You’re mine, and I want to see you accept it.”

Yoongi’s breath trembled. “Yes…”

Namjoon’s fingers tightened around his chin, tilting his face up again. “Good boy. You’ll learn what it means to be nothing but mine.”

Namjoon’s hand slid from Yoongi’s jaw down to the pale, trembling skin of his neck, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles. Yoongi’s breath hitched sharply, hips shifting involuntarily beneath the touch.

“You’re so tense,” Namjoon murmured, voice low and rough. “So small and tight. Perfect.”

His other hand moved deliberately to the waist of Yoongi, teasing just enough to make Yoongi squirm, heart pounding.

Namjoon’s fingers slipped beneath, tracing teasing lines along the soft skin of Yoongi’s hip, just missing the most sensitive places but promising they’d come soon.

“Look at you, blushing like a damn child,” Namjoon whispered, leaning close enough for his warm breath to ghost over Yoongi’s ear. “So eager to be touched, so desperate to feel.”

Yoongi’s cheeks burned, lips parting with a soft whimper as Namjoon’s fingers finally dipped lower, brushing against the small, flushed cock barely given rest.

The teasing touch was maddening—enough to make Yoongi’s body tremble, but Namjoon pulled back just before he could react fully.

“You like that, don’t you?” Namjoon teased, voice thick with dominance and promise. “You like being under me, helpless and blushing.”

Yoongi’s soft whine was all the answer Namjoon needed.

“Good,” Namjoon said with a cruel smile. “Because this is only the beginning.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened as he watched Yoongi’s soft, parted lips, the way his tongue darted out briefly, wetting them nervously. That shy little habit—the subtle oral fixation—had always fascinated Namjoon. It was a window into Yoongi’s hidden needs, the unspoken cravings he barely understood himself.

“Such a pretty mouth,” Namjoon murmured, voice thick with desire and power. “Always wanting to do… something. To take. To beg.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, cheeks flushing hotter, unable to meet Namjoon’s gaze.

Namjoon’s fingers hovered just above Yoongi’s skin of Yoongi’s delicate cock, never quite touching, tracing invisible patterns over his hips and lower abdomen. The teasing proximity sent electric shivers through Yoongi’s body, heightening every nerve, every sensitive spot.

Yoongi’s small cock twitched under the faint restraint, slick gathering at the tip despite the absence of touch. Yoongi came hard.

“Look at you,” Namjoon whispered, voice low and possessive. “Come undone just from my hands in the air.”

Yoongi’s breath caught, hips jerking forward helplessly, overwhelmed by sensations that had nowhere to go.

Namjoon smiled cruelly, eyes glittering with dark amusement. “You don’t even need me to touch you, do you? You’re already mine, body and mind.”

Yoongi’s soft, breathless moan was the only answer.

Namjoon’s hand came down sharply against Yoongi’s small cock, a deliberate, firm smack that made Yoongi gasp, hips jolting in surprise. The sting was sharp, fire blooming along the delicate skin, making every nerve flare with hypersensitivity.

“You like that, don’t you?” Namjoon’s voice was low and commanding, eyes dark with hunger.

Yoongi’s breath hitched, cheeks flushing deeper, lips trembling as the lingering burn mingled with a rush of aching need. His body trembled, so fragile and so exposed beneath Namjoon’s control.

Namjoon’s hand came down again, each smack punctuated by his slow, possessive words. “You’re mine to tease. Mine to push and pull. You’re so sensitive, baby. So fucking perfect like this.”

Yoongi’s small cock twitched violently with each sharp strike, cum gathering quickly despite the sting. His moans were quiet, desperate, caught between pain and overwhelming pleasure.

Namjoon’s grip tightened, fingers curling possessively around Yoongi’s hip as he watched the fragile boy unravel beneath him. “Good boy. Take it. Let it break you down.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched again, hips bucking involuntarily, overwhelmed by the mix of pain, pleasure, and utter submission.

------

The morning light was still pale as Namjoon made his way to the pack dorm, the photos of Yoongi saved carefully on his phone. The memory of Yoongi’s flushed skin, his delicate form exposed and vulnerable, still burned in Namjoon’s mind.

Inside the dorm, the air was thick with the familiar scent of the pack—earthy, wild, and powerful. The others looked up as Namjoon entered, their sharp eyes immediately catching the tension in his stride.

Namjoon pulled up the photos, one by one, the screen casting a faint glow in the dim room.

“There,” Namjoon said, voice low and steady. “This is who we’re dealing with.”

The pack members leaned in, eyes darkening as they took in Yoongi’s pale skin, the soft pink flush over his nipples and sensitive places, his small frame spread out in vulnerable poses.

“Fragile,” one of them muttered.

“Perfect,” Namjoon said with a slow, confident smile. “He doesn’t even know what he’s walking into.”

A low murmur spread through the room, a mixture of curiosity, hunger, and anticipation.

Namjoon’s eyes gleamed. “He’s human, but he could fit in. We’ll make sure of that.”

The pack circled around Namjoon, their eyes sharp and hungry as they studied Yoongi’s delicate frame on the screen. The room buzzed with low, rough voices.

“He’s so small… barely enough to fill a hand,” one growled, voice thick with appetite.

Another smirked. “Look at that skin. Pale as paper. Perfect for marking.”

Namjoon’s gaze darkened. “He doesn’t know what he’s in for. But he will learn. We’ll break him down until he’s begging to belong—to serve.”

A heavy silence fell for a moment, then a wolfish chuckle rumbled. “I want to see that pink flush spread across his cheeks when he realizes how deep in this he’s going to be.”

Namjoon’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “He’s got an oral fixation, too. That little habit will make training him… interesting.”

The pack exchanged low, eager murmurs.

“He’s going to be ours,” Namjoon said, voice thick with possession. “And we’ll enjoy every moment of making him beg.”

The dim light of the pack dorm cast long shadows as Namjoon swiped through the photos again, each image highlighting Yoongi’s fragile, almost ethereal form.

One of the pack members leaned forward, voice low and approving. “Look at those thin thighs—so delicate. Like porcelain, ready to be bruised and marked.”

Another snorted softly. “And those sharp collarbones… makes him look even smaller. Like he could snap if you squeezed too hard.”

Namjoon’s eyes gleamed. “That’s what makes him perfect. He’s fragile, innocent-looking. But there’s fire beneath that pale skin, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

A wolfish grin spread across another face. “Small cock, huh? Bet that’ll drive him crazy—always wanting more but never quite enough.”

The pack chuckled darkly, the sound rough and hungry.

“He’s going to learn fast,” Namjoon said, voice steady and commanding. “We’ll teach him what it means to belong. To submit. To crave.”

Another leaned back, eyes sharp. “When do we start?”

Namjoon’s smile deepened, filled with promise and possession. “Soon. Very soon. He’s ours now.”

Namjoon paused on a photo that lingered on Yoongi’s most vulnerable parts—his pale skin glowing softly under the dim light, flushed pink in places most private. The delicate contrast of his skin and the tender pink of his nipples and… well, the intimate areas didn’t escape the pack’s notice.

One member’s voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “He’s so soft everywhere, even where it counts. Pink all over. Like a fresh, untouched bloom.”

Namjoon’s lips curled. “That softness won’t last. We’ll mark him. Make him ours—body and soul.”

The pack exchanged looks, hungry and eager.

“I want you all to see what he’s turning into,” he said, voice low, satisfied. “What we’ve made him.”

The screen lit up as he hit play. Their gazes snapped to it like wolves scenting fresh blood.

The video was quiet. Grainy, low light. Yoongi lay still on his bed, face relaxed in sleep, lips parted slightly, flushed and trembling. Naked. His thighs twitched. His breathing hitched.

The screen showed Yoongi in bed — small and pale in the center of dark sheets. The lighting was soft, tinted amber by a night lamp, just enough to catch his profile. His long lashes fluttered in sleep, black hair messy across the pillow, sweat clinging to his temples. His lips were parted, breath shallow and unsteady. A quiet whimper escaped him — faint, broken. His hips shifted, subtle and involuntary, like a response to something only he could feel. 

He was flushed. That was what made the video unbearable to look away from. His skin was glowing pink at his neck, chest, cheeks, small erect dick — a slow burn rising even in unconsciousness. The blankets were pooled at his feet, exposing the narrow slope of his waist and the fine tremble in his stomach. His fingers twitched near his chest, curling into loose fists. His mouth moved as if whispering something — a name, maybe, or a plea.

Yoongi never opened his eyes. But the way his body reacted… it told everything.

Namjoon let the clip run for only a minute before pausing. That was all he needed.

“I barely touched him,” he said, voice low, controlled. “Like once.”

The others sat in stunned silence, breathing thick and uneven.

Jimin broke it first with a slow exhale. “That’s without contact?”

Taehyung leaned back, smirking. “He’s starting to fall even when no one’s catching him.”

Seokjin’s smile was cold. “It’s what he wants. To be owned down to the way he dreams.”

Hoseok shook his head, amused. “Poor thing. Doesn’t even know he’s giving himself away in his sleep.”

Jungkook looked at the screen “When he’s ready, I want to see what he looks like awake.”

Namjoon smiled. “You’ll get your chance. We all will.”

Namjoon didn’t speak as he pressed play again. The screen shifted—no longer focused on Yoongi’s flushed, sleeping form. Now it pointed crookedly toward the ceiling, likely dropped or set aside in a rush. The warm-toned light cast shadows, and though the image itself revealed nothing, the sound was everything.

There was breathing—hitched, soft, needy.

Then the wet sound of lips meeting. Hesitant. Messy. A soft whimper. A shaky gasp.

Yoongi’s voice, barely above a whisper: “…Namjoon…”

A pause. Then another kiss—longer, slower. This time, Namjoon was unmistakably leading, taking. A low hum rumbled from his chest, just audible through the speaker.

The pack stiffened.

“Seriously?” Taehyung muttered, his tone sharp but low. “You get that first too?”

“Didn’t even tell us,” Jungkook added, jaw tight. “You knew we wanted to see it.”

Seokjin clicked his tongue. “You always claim your share before we even get a taste.”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. He just stood there, thumb resting on the edge of his phone like it was a trophy.

“It was his first kiss,” he said. The statement hung in the air like a challenge.

The silence that followed was thick with tension—of jealousy, of hunger. Jimin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice honey-slick and sharp.

“Was he shy?” he asked, smirking. “Did he tremble? Bet he didn’t even know what to do with his hands.”

Namjoon’s mouth curved into something darker than a smile. “He kept them on my chest. Gripping like I’d disappear. Like he didn’t know how to ask, but didn’t want me to stop.”

“That’s not fair,” Jungkook muttered, almost sulking now. “He’s mine too.”

“Not yet,” Namjoon replied coolly. “You all wanted him broken in, right? You wanted him soft enough to bend without fear? I’m making sure he gets there.”

The others fell quiet. Hoseok glanced toward the hallway, as if he could sense Yoongi’s scent from here.

“He still doesn’t know what we plan to do with him, does he?”

“Oh, of course he doesn't” Namjoon said, “he has ideas but they're far from reality. But he’s still pretending he’s in control of his feelings.”

Jin laughed, cold and lovely. “Let him. It’ll make his surrender that much sweeter.”

Namjoon’s eyes flicked toward the dim hallway too. “Next time, he won’t be the only being kissed by one.”

The pack’s tension twisted into anticipation—dark, inevitable.

And somewhere in his college dorm, Yoongi slept on, unaware his lips had started a war.

“He’s the one,” Seokjin said at last, voice low and matter-of-fact. Not up for debate. “Don’t pretend like we haven’t all felt it.”

No one disagreed. Not even Jungkook, who just clenched his jaw and exhaled hard through his nose.

“The way he reacts to you. The way he melts under pressure,” Hoseok added, his tone dry and dark. “It’s not just shyness. He wants to fall. Wants to be claimed.”

Jimin leaned back on his palms, head tilting with a slow grin. “And that mouth of his. All stutters and soft noises like he’s never had anyone look at him properly before.”

Taehyung’s gaze was still fixed on Yoongi’s curled-up form on the screen.

“What’s his full name again?” he asked, casually. Too casually.

Namjoon didn’t hesitate. “Min Yoongi.”

“Age?” Jin asked, though he already knew.

“Seventeen” Namjoon said. “Freshly moved in. First time away from home. First everything.”

A hum passed through the room—something close to satisfaction. Possession.

“So he really is untouched,” Jungkook murmured, almost reverently. “He’s soft now, but we’ll ruin him sweetly.”

“We won’t even have to try,” Jimin said. “He’s already halfway gone.”

Namjoon walked to the table and set his drink down with care. He looked each of them in the eye, one by one.

“You’re not wrong. He’s the one. But we do this right. He’s already scared—we don’t want him running. He stays, even if he thinks it’s his choice.”

“And when do we get our turns?” Taehyung asked, voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade.

Namjoon smirked. “When he starts dreaming about you the way he already dreams about me.”

Jungkook let out a low laugh. “Then we’ll give him something to dream about.”

The pack moved slowly after that, dispersing like smoke—content, but barely.

None of them said it, but they were all thinking the same thing:

Min Yoongi wasn’t just the one they wanted.

He was the one they were going to take.
Piece by piece.
Whimper by whimper.
Until his heart—and every part of him—belonged to the pack.

And he would thank them for it.

The pack dorm was thick with low growls and murmurs, the air heavy as the pack debated fiercely over their newest interest—Yoongi.

Namjoon stood at the center, phone still in hand, the photos of Yoongi casting a soft glow over the room. Around him, the others paced or lounged, each voicing their opinion with growing excitement.

Jungkook was the first to break the silence. “He’s definitely a kitten. Look at those sharp little ears he hides under his hair, that delicate way he curls in on himself. Always shy, always soft. That’s kitten behavior.”

Taehyung snorted, shaking his head. “No way. He’s a bunny. Look at that skinny frame, the way he’s so jumpy and twitchy. Bunnies are nervous, high-strung. Yoongi’s all that. Definitely bunny.”

Hoseok leaned forward, fingers tapping the table thoughtfully. “I see what Taehyung means. Bunnies are flighty, easily startled, but they’re also fast to trust. Yoongi looks like he’d spring away at the slightest touch, but once he’s comfortable, he’s soft and warm.”

Jimin crossed his arms, smirking. “Kitten or bunny, either way, he’s the perfect prey. But I’d say kitten because of his oral fixation. Cats love to lick and nibble, right? That matches Yoongi’s little habit perfectly.”

Namjoon’s eyes glittered, watching the pack argue like wolves over their prize.

“He’s so fragile and small,” Jin added, voice calm but firm. “That delicate pink everywhere—ears, nipples, even his little dick. Bunnies tend to have that kind of innocent softness, whereas kittens have sharper edges.”

Jungkook scoffed. “But kittens are more demanding. Yoongi doesn’t seem demanding. He’s quiet, nervous, like a bunny caught in headlights.”

Taehyung shrugged. “Quiet doesn’t mean not demanding inside. He might just be hiding it.”

Namjoon raised a hand to quiet them, voice deep and commanding. “Enough. We’re missing the point. Yoongi isn’t just some pet to argue over. He’s ours to shape, to claim. Kitten or bunny, that’s on us to decide. What matters is how we take care of him… how we break him in.”

The pack fell silent, the weight of Namjoon’s words sinking in.

Jimin smiled darkly. “I vote we let him keep a little of both—soft and needy, shy but with sharp claws underneath.”

Jin nodded slowly. “A hybrid. Neither fully one thing or the other.”

Taehyung grinned, eyes gleaming. “Perfect. That way, we get all the best parts. And he’ll never know what hit him.”

Namjoon’s smile was slow, possessive. “Good. Then it’s settled. Yoongi is ours—a little bunny, a little kitten, completely ours.”

The pack murmured in agreement, the energy shifting from playful debate to something darker and more certain.

Namjoon glanced down at his phone one last time, the image of Yoongi’s shy, flushed face burning bright. “Soon, he’ll understand. Soon, he’ll belong.”

The room settled after the kitten-versus-bunny debate, but Hoseok's voice cut through the quiet like a low growl.

“You’re all right about one thing,” he said, eyes dark and intense. “Whether bunny or kitten, both have incredibly high drives. It’s in their nature.”

Jungkook nodded eagerly. “Yeah. Kittens aren’t just shy and soft—they have fierce needs underneath. They want attention, they want to be pounced on, teased until they can’t take it.”

Taehyung grinned, leaning back. “And bunnies? They might look delicate and jumpy, but their heat cycles… damn. They’re insatiable. When the need hits, it’s overwhelming. They’re desperate for touch, for release.”

Hoseok rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s what makes them such good mates. The hunger beneath the softness. It makes them easy to control, easy to break… and easy to love.”

Namjoon’s gaze sharpened. “Yoongi will have that hunger too, even if he doesn’t know it yet. We’ll stoke the flames, make sure he craves what only we can give him.”

Namjoon leaned back, fingers lazily tapping against his knee. The pack was quiet, circling him with hungry attention, waiting for his next confession.

He didn’t disappoint.

“He asked me if it was normal for it to hurt down there, he came to me trembling,” Namjoon continued. “Red all the way down his neck. Said it was hard down there. Thought he was sick.” Namjoon said, his voice laced with amusement and something darker. “He was flushed, squirming in that ridiculous oversized hoodie, thighs pressed together like he thought it would go away if he just held still.”

Jungkook let out a breath, jaw tight. “And he didn’t know what it was?”

Namjoon’s smirk curled slow and dangerous. “Not a clue. I asked him to show me—told him I couldn’t help if I didn’t see. And when he tugged his sweats down, he was so small literally a baby by were standards, confused and humiliated.”

Namjoon’s smile deepened, slow and cruel. “Didn’t even know what to call it. Said he thought something was wrong with him.”

Hoseok gave a low whistle. “God, he’s that innocent?”

“Sheltered,” Namjoon corrected. “Soft. Completely untouched. Never even tried anything on his own. No one ever told him. I had to explain it—what it was. Why it happens.”

Taehyung leaned forward, intrigued. “And you told him?”

“I told him it was normal,” Namjoon said, tone mock-soothing. “That it was healthy to take care of it. That letting it build up would stress his system, and he should get relief at least three times a day.”

Jin let out a quiet laugh. “You medicalized it?”

Namjoon nodded, eyes gleaming. “Of course. I keep track of his health, don’t I? Told him I’d monitor his progress. Keep notes. I even bought him crop tops.”

Jungkook looked like he was about to choke on air. “You’re tracking it?”

“He gives me updates,” Namjoon said simply. “Shyly, of course. He doesn’t like saying the words. But he wants to do well. He trusts me.”

“And what does he think it means?” Hoseok asked, lips curling. “All this attention?”

“He thinks I’m helping him be normal,” Namjoon replied. “He thinks I’m being kind.”

“I gave him a soft towel, hypoallergenic lotion, told him to take care of it three times a day—minimum. Said it would balance his hormones and keep his system from crashing.” His eyes flashed. “He took it seriously. He even makes little notes about it in a journal I gave him.”

Hoseok let out a soft, mean laugh. “So he really thinks he’s regulating his health?”

Namjoon nodded, expression unreadable. “He thanks me for looking out for him. For making it clinical. Innocent.”

“He doesn’t even know he’s getting off,” Jimin muttered, voice half-wild with disbelief. “He thinks it’s a body function?”

Jungkook’s hands were clenched, knuckles white. “That little idiot. He’s so—”

“Ours,” Seokjin finished for him, voice calm, absolute.

Namjoon’s voice lowered, almost reverent. “He couldn’t even do it on his own.”

The pack stilled.

“He tried. Once,” Namjoon went on. “But he didn’t understand how. Said it felt wrong touching himself, like he was doing something bad. He was crying when he texted me. Said he didn’t know what to do with his hands.”

Jimin’s lips parted in a slow grin. “He cried?”

Namjoon nodded, gaze unfocused, like recalling a sacred memory. “Helpless. Curled up in bed with his bunny plush. Said it hurt, that the hardness wouldn’t stop coming, and he felt too warm and too shaky. Begged me to come.”

“And you did,” Jin guessed, voice dark with amusement.

Namjoon smiled. “Of course. I told him I’d take care of it. That it’s normal for baby boys like him to need help regulating their glands.”

“Glands,” Hoseok muttered with a snort. “You make it sound so clinical.”

Namjoon leaned forward, eyes sharp now. “That’s the point. He doesn’t want to be dirty. He wants to be cared for. That’s how you get into his head. You don’t shame him. You hold him through it.”

Taehyung looked both amused and envious. “And now?”

“Now,” Namjoon said, “he doesn’t even ask anymore. He just lays back and waits. Lets me handle it. Whimpers a little. Blushes. But he knows I’ll be gentle.”

Jungkook let out a frustrated exhale, fists clenched. “So you get to touch him whenever he get hard?”

“Not necessarily,” Namjoon said with mock-innocence. “But lately, it’s been more frequent. I told him his stress levels might be triggering his system. Weekends are the worst.”

“How bad is it?” Jimin asked, eyes dark.

Namjoon chuckled under his breath. “Last weekend we had to go over five times. He was so dazed by the end of it he could barely sit up. I wrapped him in blankets and held him until he fell asleep.”

The pack fell silent again, processing.

“He doesn’t know,” Namjoon continued softly, “that he’s already addicted to the attention. He thinks I’m helping him regulate his hormones. He doesn’t realize he’s being trained.”

“And when he finds out?” Seokjin asked, tilting his head.

Namjoon’s eyes gleamed. “He won’t care. He’ll already be too far gone. And we’ll be the only ones who make him feel better.”

“He’s not even ours yet,” Jungkook muttered.

Namjoon looked at him. “He will be.”

And somewhere in a dorm, Yoongi hummed softly to himself, folding laundry, clutching his bunny plush, feeling safe — unaware that his health routines were anything but innocent.

Jimin smirked. “I can’t wait to see how long it takes before he’s begging, unable to hold back. Those small, fragile bodies hide the wildest fires.”

Jin’s voice was calm but firm. “That fire can burn out if it’s not tended carefully. We’ll keep him balanced—pushed, but protected.”

Namjoon’s lips curled. “We’ll own every part of him. The hunger, the need, the desperation. He won’t have a choice.”

The pack’s murmurs grew louder with hunger and anticipation, their thoughts already turning to the day Yoongi would be theirs fully—mind, body, and soul.

Jin broke through the murmurs. “We’ve debated kitten or bunny long enough. The answer’s clear.”

Taehyung raised an eyebrow. “You mean, why not both?”

Jimin smirked. “A hybrid. Big fluffy bunny tail with giant black cat ears. He’s a mix—fragile but fierce.”

Namjoon’s eyes gleamed. “Exactly. His tail is soft and twitchy, perfect for a bunny’s nervous energy. And those ears? Large, black, alert—catlike, sharp, always listening.”

Hoseok nodded. “That combination will drive him wild. The best of both worlds—shy and needy, but with a little edge. A perfect balance.”

Jungkook grinned, voice low and hungry. “Imagine the way he’ll twitch when we tease those sensitive ears, or how his tail will flick when he’s overstimulated.”

Namjoon’s voice dropped to a near whisper, full of possession. “He’ll never be just one thing. He’ll be ours, with all the marks and traits we choose to give him.”

The pack exchanged looks, hunger and excitement flashing behind their eyes.

Jin’s tone was gentle but firm. “Big, fluffy tail. Giant black ears. It’s decided.”

Namjoon pocketed his phone, a slow, satisfied smile curling his lips. “Soon, he’ll carry those marks proudly—whether he likes it or not.”

Namjoon leaned back, a dark smile tugging at his lips as he looked over the photos again. “You know what else makes the kitty side interesting?”

Jungkook tilted his head, curious. “What?”

“That constant meowing,” Namjoon said, voice low and possessive. “Soft, helpless sounds when he’s overwhelmed or desperate. It’s… intoxicating.”

Taehyung chuckled. “I can already hear it—the little whimpers and meows when he’s begging for more, unable to get enough.”

Jimin added, eyes gleaming, “And bunnies don’t have much of a refractory period. They recover fast, ready to go again and again. That kind of endless need? It’s addictive.”

Hoseok nodded. “It means he’ll be begging even when he’s already spent, still desperate for more.”

Jin’s voice was steady. “We’ll have to be careful with that—pacing him, making sure he doesn’t burn out too fast. But that endless craving… it’s going to break him in all the right ways.”

Namjoon’s grin deepened. “Exactly. That meowing, that insatiable hunger—it’ll be his signature. His weakness and his strength.”

The pack exchanged knowing looks, already imagining the soft sounds and endless need that would bind Yoongi to them completely.

Namjoon’s voice dropped to a whisper, thick with promise. “He won’t be able to hide it. Not from us. Not ever.”

------

Yoongi stirred awake, the first pale light of morning filtering softly through the curtains. He pulled the blanket tighter around his thin frame, shivering despite the warmth. His skin was as white as paper, fragile and smooth, and he hugged himself, trying to chase away the nervous fluttering in his chest.

The night’s strange tension still lingered, an ache he couldn’t name. Namjoon’s eyes haunted him—dark, intense, filled with a knowing that made Yoongi’s stomach twist.

He glanced down at himself, clad only in his underwear—the plain, soft cotton barely covering his small, slender body. The sharp angles of his collarbones, the thinness of his thighs, the faint pink flush on his nipples and skin—he was painfully aware of how exposed and fragile he felt.

Why did Namjoon look at him like that? Like he was something… special? Or something to own?

A flush crept up Yoongi’s neck, embarrassment swirling with a strange, new curiosity. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, and he bit his lip to keep quiet.

He was just a human. Nothing more.

Yet Namjoon’s world—whispers —seemed to orbit him like a shadow he couldn’t see.

Yoongi squeezed his eyes shut, willing the feelings away. But beneath the confusion, a seed of longing took root—a confusing mix of fear and fascination. Namjoon’s dominance, his cocky confidence… it pulled at something deep inside Yoongi he didn’t understand.

He was naïve, shy, and so very unaware.

But that was about to change.

Namjoon watched Yoongi fidget nervously on the edge of his bed, the faint flush creeping up his pale cheeks making Namjoon’s chest tighten with possessive hunger.

“You’re tense,” Namjoon murmured, stepping closer, voice low and smooth. “I can fix that.”

Yoongi swallowed, eyes wide and hesitant, his small frame seeming even more fragile in his plain underwear. Namjoon reached into his bag and pulled out a delicate piece of fabric—soft lace edged in black, tiny and light.

Panties.

Yoongi’s breath hitched, a blush deepening as Namjoon held them up.

“Try these,” Namjoon said, voice edged with something dark and tempting. “They’re yours now. Something to make you feel… different.”

Yoongi shook his head, shy and unsure. “I—I don’t know… I’ve never worn anything like that.”

Namjoon’s smile was patient but firm. “That’s why I’m here. To teach you.”

With careful hands, Namjoon helped Yoongi out of his underwear, sliding the silky panties up his slender hips. Yoongi’s breath caught, the new sensation foreign and startling against his sensitive skin.

“They suit you,” Namjoon whispered, tracing a finger along Yoongi’s hipbone. “Soft, delicate. Like you.”

Yoongi’s cheeks burned as a shy whimper escaped him. The mix of embarrassment and something more raw and aching made his body tremble.

Namjoon leaned down, voice a dark promise again. “You’re mine, Yoongi. And this—this is just the beginning.

------

Yoongi slumped onto the worn couch, cheeks flushed from the day’s sun and the dizzy whirl of the amusement park. His limbs ached pleasantly, muscles tired from laughter and running around.

Namjoon leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with a sharp, assessing gaze.

“So,” Namjoon began, voice smooth like dark honey, “how do you feel about your ‘friends’ today?”

Yoongi blinked, looking up with that soft, uncertain expression that made Namjoon’s chest tighten.

“They were… nice,” Yoongi said carefully, wringing his hands. “They seemed friendly. Like they wanted me around. I mean, I don’t really know them well, but I… I think I like them.”

Namjoon’s lips curved into a slow smile, one part amused, one part calculating. “That’s good. They’re important. People you can trust.”

Yoongi nodded slowly, still unsure. “Yeah, but they seemed… different. Like there was something unusual. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, and he stepped forward, voice low and teasing. “They’re special. Just like you.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, heart fluttering as a mix of curiosity and nervousness bloomed inside him.

“Don’t worry,” Namjoon said, crouching beside him, hand brushing lightly over Yoongi’s. “You’ll understand soon enough. For now, just enjoy their company.”

Yoongi glanced up, meeting Namjoon’s intense gaze, feeling both comforted and overwhelmed.

He was wrapped in a world he didn’t understand—one he wasn’t ready for, but couldn’t escape.

The days blurred together as Yoongi found himself increasingly surrounded by Namjoon’s so-called “friends.” They came to the dorm often—laughing, teasing, always hovering just close enough to unsettle him without giving away their true intentions.

Each of them wore smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes, voices warm but laced with a dangerous edge.

Seokjin was the first to catch Yoongi off guard, leaning close with a grin that made Yoongi’s cheeks burn. “You’re looking good today, Yoongi. That shy smile suits you.”

Yoongi stammered, eyes wide, his pulse spiking at the unexpected attention.

Hoseok wasn’t far behind, his voice dipping low as he teased, “I bet you don’t even know how pretty you are—pink cheeks, soft skin. You’d be perfect for… certain things.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in his stomach.

Jimin and Taehyung both exchanged glances, their smirks mischievous as they circled him like curious predators.

“Don’t worry, little one,” Jimin murmured, voice thick with promise. “We’ll take good care of you. You’ll learn what you’re really meant for.”

Taehyung’s fingers brushed lightly against Yoongi’s arm, sending a shiver racing through his spine. “Just relax. Let us show you how it feels to be wanted.”

Yoongi’s mind spun—confused, embarrassed, yet undeniably drawn to their dangerous charm.

All the while, Namjoon watched from the sidelines, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. His hold over Yoongi tightened with every whispered word, every stolen glance.

He was molding Yoongi into something new—something his pack could claim.

And Yoongi had no idea.

The room hummed with low laughter and quiet murmurs as the pack lounged comfortably around Yoongi as usual, their presence both overwhelming and oddly reassuring. Namjoon sat close by, watching with sharp, calculating eyes as the others closed ranks around Yoongi.

Seokjin’s hand brushed lightly over Yoongi’s forearm, fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns that made Yoongi’s skin prick with unexpected warmth. “So delicate,” Jin whispered, voice rich with something unspoken. “Like porcelain you want to protect… or break.”

Yoongi flinched, cheeks burning as he looked down, uncertain how to respond. His hands twisted nervously in his lap, heart hammering with a mixture of fear and something new—desire he didn’t fully understand.

Hoseok leaned in next, his breath warm against Yoongi’s ear. “You feel that?” he murmured. “That little tremble when I touch you? It’s just the beginning.”

His fingers slid from Yoongi’s shoulder down his arm, a teasing caress that sent a shiver racing along Yoongi’s spine.

Jimin and Taehyung exchanged wicked grins, each reaching out to trace the lines of Yoongi’s collarbone and the soft skin beneath his sweatshirt. The touches were featherlight but charged, each one leaving Yoongi more flushed and overwhelmed.

“Look at him,” Jimin said softly, voice dripping with pride and possession. “So small. So sensitive. Perfect.”

Taehyung’s hand lingered a moment too long on Yoongi’s thigh, fingertips pressing into the thin flesh beneath the fabric. “I wonder how much he’s really ready for,” he teased lowly. “How much he can take.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, a soft whimper barely escaping his lips. The sensation of so many eyes and hands on him was intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

Namjoon’s voice cut through the haze, calm but commanding. “Enough teasing for now.”

He stood, stepping closer until his presence pressed down on Yoongi like a weight, grounding and overwhelming.

“You belong to us now,” Namjoon said quietly. “And soon, you’ll understand exactly what that means.”

Yoongi’s eyes flickered to Namjoon’s, wide and searching. “I… I don’t know if I can…”

Namjoon’s hand found Yoongi’s chin, tilting it up so their eyes locked. “You will. Because I’ll make sure of it.”

The others closed in, the room thick with anticipation and unspoken promises, and Yoongi felt the fragile barrier around him begin to crumble.

The routines didn't stop.

Namjoon’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, the air between them thick with tension. His hand slid deliberately down Yoongi’s arm, fingers trailing along the pale skin, leaving a burning trail in their wake.

“You’re shaking,” Namjoon murmured, voice low and possessive. “Do you want me to stop?”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, cheeks flushed crimson, but his voice caught in his throat. He barely managed a whisper. “N-no…”

Namjoon smiled—sharp, hungry—and crouched to Yoongi’s level. His hand found the waistband of Yoongi’s underwear, fingers grazing the sensitive skin just beneath.

“You’re so small,” Namjoon said softly, voice a dark promise. “So fragile. But you respond so well…”

His fingers trailed lower, teasing the sensitive flesh just above Yoongi’s thigh. Yoongi’s body tensed, hips tilting slightly forward without conscious thought.

Namjoon’s hand cupped him boldly now, fingers stroking slow, deliberate circles over the thin fabric. Yoongi bit his lip, eyes fluttering closed as an overwhelming warmth spread through him.

“You like this, don’t you?” Namjoon whispered. “I can make you come without even touching you properly.”

Yoongi whimpered softly, heart pounding, breath shaky.

Namjoon’s other hand slid up to cup Yoongi’s cheek, thumb brushing over the soft skin. “You belong to me now. And I’m going to take care of you—whether you want it or not.”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, Namjoon delivered a sudden, firm spank to Yoongi’s exposed thigh. The sting bloomed hot and electric, making Yoongi gasp and tremble.

“Hypersensitive, just like I thought,” Namjoon said, voice low and amused. “You’ll learn to love it.”

Yoongi’s knees buckled slightly, breaths coming faster, hips shifting unconsciously, craving the relentless pressure, the cruel teasing.

Namjoon leaned in, voice a rough whisper. “Tell me how much you want me.”

Yoongi’s lips parted, voice barely audible. “I… I want you…”

Namjoon’s grin was triumphant. “Good boy.”

Namjoon’s fingers pressed more firmly against Yoongi’s skin, tracing slow, teasing circles just beneath the waistband of his underwear. Yoongi’s breath hitched, a flush spreading deep into his cheeks as his body involuntarily responded. Namjoon’s eyes glinted with possessive hunger as he watched the subtle tremble ripple through Yoongi’s thin frame.

“Look at you,” Namjoon murmured, voice low and commanding. “So delicate… so eager to please.” He delivered another sharp spank to Yoongi’s thigh, the sting blooming hot against his skin. Yoongi gasped, knees trembling, cheeks flushed pinker than before.

Namjoon’s hand moved to cup Yoongi’s small cock through the fabric, fingers kneading gently but firmly. “You like this, don’t you? I can make you come without even touching you properly.” His thumb rubbed slow, careful circles over the sensitive tip, and Yoongi bit his lip, eyes fluttering closed in overwhelming sensation.

The room was thick with heat and tension as Namjoon’s teasing continued, pushing Yoongi to the edge. “You belong to me,” Namjoon whispered into Yoongi’s ear, voice husky with promise. “And I’m going to take care of you, no matter what.”

Yoongi whimpered softly, hips shifting forward as waves of pleasure and embarrassment coursed through him. “I… I want you…” he breathed, voice trembling.

Namjoon’s grin deepened. “Good boy.” He pressed his body closer, lips brushing against Yoongi’s temple as he whispered, “You’re mine.”

As the days went by the pack got bolder. Coming at any time of the day. The door creaked open quietly, and Hoseok stepped inside, a playful grin already tugging at his lips. The room was empty—except for one small detail that caught his eye immediately: a pair of delicate black lace panties, carelessly tossed on the floor near Yoongi’s bed.

Hoseok’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with wicked amusement. He picked them up, fingers brushing over the soft fabric, imagining the shy, innocent Yoongi wearing them.

A low chuckle escaped him. “Well, well. Looks like someone’s been exploring new things.”

He cradled the panties in one hand and traced the edges with the other, his mind racing with teasing possibilities. When Yoongi finally walked in, cheeks already flushed from the warm sunlight, Hoseok was ready.

“Hey, Yoongi,” Hoseok said smoothly, holding up the panties like a trophy. “Forgot these?”

Yoongi froze, eyes widening in pure panic. “P-please, give those back,” he stammered, stepping back, voice barely above a whisper.

Hoseok’s smile was all teeth, dripping with teasing malice. “You’re adorable,” he said, dropping the panties on the bed and reaching out to brush a finger lightly down Yoongi’s arm. “Maybe next time, you’ll be braver about showing us.”

Yoongi’s face burned hotter than ever, a mix of humiliation and something deeper—something dangerously close to wanting.

Hoseok’s laughter echoed softly as he held Yoongi’s delicate panties in one hand once again, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick message.

“Guys, you need to see this,” he smirked, already knowing how the others would react.

Within minutes, the door creaked open and one by one, Namjoon, Jin, Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook filed in, their eyes lighting up the moment they saw Hoseok holding the tiny lace garment.

Jin raised an eyebrow with a sly grin. “Well, well… looks like our little roommate has a secret.”

Yoongi’s cheeks flamed crimson as the pack closed in, their teasing voices low and loaded with amusement.

“Look at those,” Jimin whispered, tracing a finger along the delicate fabric Hoseok held up. “You really think you can hide this from us?”

Taehyung chuckled, stepping closer, his voice playful but edged with dominance. “You’re going to have to explain yourself, kitten.”

Yoongi shrank back, voice trembling. “I… it’s not what you think…”

Namjoon’s eyes gleamed with that familiar possessive spark. “We know exactly what it means, Yoongi.”

The pack’s warm, teasing presence wrapped around him like a velvet trap—half embarrassing, half intoxicating.

Jungkook smirked. “You’re ours now. We see everything.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, torn between humiliation and a strange, aching longing.

The pack had gathered again, drawn by Hoseok’s earlier discovery of Yoongi’s panties. This time, their curiosity had taken a more daring turn. With a mischievous glint in their eyes, Namjoon nodded to Jin, who quietly pulled open Yoongi’s closet door.

Inside, neatly folded and carefully hidden behind a stack of sweaters, lay a small, colorful collection — thongs, g-strings, v-strings, even a few daring c-strings and t-strings, each more delicate and revealing than the last.

Jungkook whistled low, running a finger over a lace-edged thong. “Well, well. Looks like someone’s got quite the secret.”

Yoongi’s face flushed the shade of ripe cherries as he stood frozen near the doorway, arms crossed defensively over his chest. His breath hitched, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the amused whispers swirling around him.

“Y-You weren’t supposed to find those,” Yoongi stammered, voice barely audible.

Taehyung grinned, holding up a particularly tiny g-string between his fingers. “How do you even wear this without disappearing?”

Jimin chuckled, eyes sparkling with teasing delight. “I bet you look adorable in all of them.”

Hoseok’s hand brushed Yoongi’s arm in a mock comforting gesture. “Don’t be shy, Yoongi. We all have our little pleasures.”

Namjoon stepped forward, voice low and smooth like velvet. “You really don’t realize how much you’re tempting us, do you?”

Yoongi swallowed hard, cheeks burning as the pack’s teasing tightened around him like a warm, but unyielding noose. Namjoon was betraying him. It was their secret.

Jin leaned close, whispering just loud enough for Yoongi to hear, “Maybe we’ll have to pick out your outfit next time.”

Yoongi’s eyes widened, a flush deepening on his neck. “P-please, no…”

But the pack’s laughter only grew, full of affection and wicked amusement.

“Cute and embarrassed,” Jungkook said softly, voice edged with promise. “Exactly how we like you.”

The laughter echoed softly in the room, warm but unrelenting. Yoongi’s fingers trembled as he wrapped his arms tighter around his slender frame, wishing he could disappear right into the floor. The delicate lingerie laid bare his secret in front of the whole pack — his most private side exposed without mercy.

Yet beneath the heat of humiliation, a strange flutter stirred in his chest, confusing and unfamiliar.

Namjoon’s voice cut through the haze, calm and commanding. “Look at him, all shy and fragile. It’s like he was made to be spoiled—and teased.”

Hoseok nudged Yoongi’s shoulder lightly, smirking. “You’re too cute when you’re flustered. Bet you didn’t expect your ‘friends’ to see this side of you.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched. “I… I didn’t want anyone to know…”

Jimin leaned in, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from Yoongi’s forehead. “Secrets make things more interesting, don’t you think? Especially when they’re as… delicate as you.”

Yoongi’s pulse quickened as the pack’s gazes turned affectionate but hungry, their teasing layered with an unspoken promise of more to come.

His mind spun—part embarrassment, part thrill. The power they held over him was intoxicating and terrifying.

“Why do I feel like I want this?” he whispered, eyes wide and vulnerable.

Namjoon’s smile softened, but the edge never left his voice. “Because you do, Yoongi. And soon, you’ll learn just how much.”

The room pulsed with energy—humiliation wrapped tightly around desire, leaving Yoongi trembling between fear and need.

The pack circled around Yoongi like a tide pulling him deeper into their world, eyes gleaming with mischief and something darker—ownership.

Namjoon’s voice cut through the charged air. “Since we’ve seen your little collection, it’s only fair you show us how you wear them.”

Yoongi’s heart slammed in his chest, cheeks flaming as the others chuckled, their gazes intense and unblinking.

“Wh-what?” Yoongi stammered, voice barely audible, eyes darting to Namjoon for an escape that wouldn’t come.

Jimin stepped forward, calm and teasing. “Come on, Yoongi. You don’t want to disappoint your friends, do you? Especially when we take such good care of you”

Hoseok’s fingers grazed Yoongi’s arm, light but certain. “We’re your friends. Your family. You don’t have to hide from us.”

“But you do have to obey,” Taehyung added with a sly smile, voice dropping an octave.

Namjoon’s hand slid to Yoongi’s chin, tilting it up so their eyes locked. “Show us. Prove you belong.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched. The weight of their expectation pressed down on him, overwhelming but undeniable. Slowly, trembling, he reached down to the waistband of his sweatpants.

The room held its breath.

With a mix of hesitation and something like daring, Yoongi pulled down his sweats, revealing the delicate lace thong Namjoon had picked up earlier from the closet.

The pack’s collective intake of breath was like a wave crashing over him.

“You look perfect,” Namjoon whispered, voice thick with approval and something possessive.

Hoseok laughed softly. “So fragile and pretty. Like a doll.”

Jungkook’s grin was sharp. “You’re ours now, kitten.”

Yoongi’s knees threatened to buckle, but the hands of the pack steadied him—firm, reassuring, dominant.

Namjoon leaned close, voice a harsh whisper against Yoongi’s ear. “Tonight, you’ll learn exactly what it means to be ours.”

Hoseok stepped forward, voice teasing but gentle. “Such a pretty sight. You don’t need to hide anymore, Yoongi.”

Jimin’s smile was warm yet commanding. “Tonight, you’re ours to guide.”

Taehyung circled behind Yoongi, fingers trailing light, deliberate touches along his sides, making Yoongi shiver. “No need to be afraid. We’ll show you everything.”

Jungkook leaned closer, whispering with a grin, “You’re safe here. But you belong.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, the mixture of embarrassment and growing desire twisting in his gut. He was vulnerable, exposed—not just in body but in spirit. Yet the weight of their gaze, their hands, was strangely comforting.

Namjoon’s voice dropped lower, authoritative but caring. “You’ll learn to trust us. To want this.”

Slowly, Yoongi nodded, breath shaky but willing. The pack closed in, their touches gentle but insistent—spreading warmth and control.

Hours slipped by in a haze of whispered encouragements, teasing smiles, and careful touches that tested boundaries without breaking trust.

Every glance, every word, every caress was a lesson in surrender and belonging.

The room was still, the soft hum of the city outside barely filtering in through the closed windows. The door clicked softly as the last footsteps of Namjoon’s friends faded down the hall. Now, only Namjoon and Yoongi remained.

Yoongi’s body felt heavy, weighted by exhaustion and the strange storm of emotions swirling inside him. He lay curled up on the bed, Namjoon’s arm draped protectively around his shoulders, anchoring him to this new, uncertain reality.

His mind spun in circles.

What just happened? The teasing, the gentle domination, the way they all looked at him—as if he belonged. Part of him wanted to recoil, to hide under the blankets forever. But another part… that small, fragile part… was aching to stay, to be seen like this. Nobody care of Yoongi in such a manner. They were all keeping his health in check.

He was still shy, still so unsure of himself. His skin, pale as paper, felt hypersensitive, every touch lingering longer in his memory. His small frame, his delicate bones—they made him feel exposed and fragile, but also… strangely precious.

Yoongi’s thoughts drifted to the lace lingerie, the whispered promises, the possessive glances. His heart raced at the memory of Namjoon’s hand on his waist, steady and commanding. It was overwhelming and terrifying—but also intoxicating.

He wondered if he was ready for this world—the world Namjoon had pulled him into, filled with so called friends, power plays, and whispered desires.

Can I trust them? Can I trust him?

The question echoed in his mind like a fragile thread, stretching taut between fear and hope.

Namjoon’s voice broke the silence, low and soothing.

“You don’t have to say anything now. Just… feel.”

And Yoongi let himself feel—the shame, the confusion, the budding trust, and the undeniable pull toward belonging.

In that quiet darkness, he realized something new.

Maybe this was where he was meant to be.

The room was quiet now, the pack gone, and only the soft rhythm of Yoongi’s breathing filling the space. Namjoon watched him closely—the way Yoongi’s small frame curled protectively under the blanket, his pale skin flushed from the night’s intensity.

Namjoon’s mind churned, calculating every step ahead, every word that would draw Yoongi deeper into the fold without overwhelming him. He knew Yoongi now was fragile—emotionally, physically—and that delicate balance was what made this so important.

Sitting beside him, Namjoon brushed a stray lock of hair from Yoongi’s forehead, his touch gentle but possessive.

“Yoongi,” he began, voice low and steady, “what we have… it’s not just friendship. It’s something more. Something deeper.”

Yoongi’s eyes fluttered open, shy and uncertain, searching Namjoon’s face for answers.

“I want you to know,” Namjoon continued, careful with his words, “that I’m not just your roommate. I’m someone who will protect you, guide you, and... claim you in a way that’s special.”

He didn’t mention packs or the secrets of their world. That was for later, when Yoongi was ready. For now, Namjoon focused on what mattered—building trust.

“This relationship between us—it’s about power, yes. But also care. Control balanced with respect. You don’t have to understand it all right now. Just know that you’re not alone.”

Namjoon’s hand found Yoongi’s, fingers curling around the smaller ones. The contact was grounding, a promise without words.

Yoongi’s breath hitched, a mix of fear and something like hope flickering in his eyes.

Namjoon smiled softly, “You’re mine, Yoongi. And I’ll take care of you.”

In that moment, the world beyond the room faded away. There was only the two of them—complex, fragile, and irrevocably connected.

The dorm room was quiet, save for the soft rustling of blankets as Yoongi fidgeted on his bed. The dim desk lamp cast golden shadows across the space, illuminating the cozy clutter of Namjoon’s half—books, plants, headphone wires—and the gentle neatness of Yoongi’s corner, still clearly being settled into.

Namjoon sat cross-legged on the floor, his laptop forgotten beside him, attention already on the small figure curled up across from him. Yoongi was clutching his bunny plush to his chest, biting at his lip like he was thinking too hard.

“You okay?” Namjoon asked softly.

Yoongi looked at him, then away again. “Yeah.”

Namjoon waited. He didn’t push.

Finally, Yoongi’s voice came, so quiet it was nearly lost under the hum of the ceiling fan.

“Are you… my boyfriend now?”

Namjoon blinked.

Yoongi flushed immediately, shrinking further into his hoodie. “You don’t have to say yes! I just—I didn’t know if we were, like… if that was what this is. Us. You and me.”

Namjoon stood slowly, walked the short distance between them, and knelt beside Yoongi’s bed.

He reached out, brushing a strand of black hair away from Yoongi’s eyes.

“If you want me to be,” he murmured, “then yeah. I am.”

Yoongi’s lashes fluttered.

“You already are, kinda,” Namjoon added, smiling. “You just hadn’t asked yet.”

Yoongi gave a tiny smile. “Okay.”

Namjoon leaned in and kissed his forehead.

“Okay,” he echoed, soft and sure.

Namjoon’s gaze lingered on Yoongi, studying the flicker of uncertainty and curiosity in his eyes. He knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy—Yoongi’s innocence and shyness were both a challenge and a treasure to protect. But Namjoon was patient; he had all the time in the world to break down walls.

“Yoongi,” Namjoon said softly, voice low and coaxing, “there’s something else you need to understand.”

Yoongi’s eyes lifted to meet his, hesitant but attentive.

“The people you saw tonight… my friends—they’re more than that. They’re my family, my pack. And they want to be yours too.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed, confusion clear. “But… I don’t know them. They’re just friends, right?”

Namjoon smiled, leaning in closer. “Friends who want to protect you, to be with you. To be part of your life, in every way.”

His fingers brushed Yoongi’s arm, sending a shiver down his spine.

“It’s not about rushing anything. It’s about trust and closeness. You don’t have to decide now, but I want you to think about it.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, heart pounding. The idea was overwhelming—and yet… somehow, it stirred something deep inside him. A longing for belonging, for connection that he’d never allowed himself to admit.

Namjoon’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Imagine having people who care for you like I do… who want to be more than just your friends. Who want to be by your side.”

The room felt charged, heavy with unspoken promises.

Yoongi’s lips parted, a faint, uncertain “Maybe…”

Namjoon smiled wider, victorious but tender. “That’s all I ask. Let me help you open up to them. Let me show you how good it can be.”

Yoongi’s eyes searched Namjoon’s face for reassurance. Namjoon gave him a gentle nod, firm and confident.

“You don’t have to be afraid. I’m here.”

Yoongi stayed quiet for a long time after Namjoon kissed his forehead, fingers tightening slightly. Namjoon didn’t move away—he sat beside the bed, close enough to touch, but waiting, watching the soft storm gathering behind Yoongi’s lashes.

The silence between them thickened, heavy like wet cloth, clinging to Yoongi’s ribs and making it hard to breathe. Namjoon hadn’t moved — he was still sitting beside the bed, close, warm, terrifying in how kind he was being.

Yoongi’s throat ached.

“Namjoon…”

His voice cracked on the second syllable. Namjoon looked up instantly, all attention.

Yoongi didn’t meet his eyes.

“If… if you’re my boyfriend now,” he began, fingers clutching tight around the bunny plush, “does that mean the others will be too?”

He paused. Then, softer: “Am I supposed to… let all of you be?”

Namjoon blinked, gently setting his hand on the bed near Yoongi’s knee.

Yoongi flinched.

“Because it feels wrong,” Yoongi whispered. “It’s already wrong, isn’t it? Boys with boys. That’s what I was told. That it’s selfish. That it’s shameful. That no one decent would want that.”

He bit his lip hard. “But now there’s six of you. And you all look at me like I’m something precious. Like I’m allowed to be wanted. And it—”

His voice broke completely. “It scares me. Because I like it. And I hate that I like it.”

Namjoon didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, “You were taught to be afraid of love.”

Yoongi’s eyes burned.

“And now that someone wants to give it to you — gently, freely — it feels like a trap. Because the kindness doesn’t match what you were told.”

Yoongi nodded. “I keep thinking it’ll turn. That you’ll all get tired of me. Or worse—realize I’m too broken to love at all.”

Namjoon finally reached for him, and this time Yoongi let him.

“You’re not broken,” Namjoon said firmly. “You’re grieving the version of yourself you were forced to be.”

Yoongi made a soft, broken sound.

“You don’t have to choose all of us at once. But if you do…” Namjoon’s thumb brushed against his hand. “Let it be because it feels right. Not because we expect it.” He lied. 

Yoongi’s voice trembled. “You don’t think I’m disgusting?”

Namjoon looked him dead in the eye.

“I think you’re surviving something cruel. And I think you’re the bravest person I know.”

Yoongi didn’t speak. But he let himself cry.

And Namjoon stayed.

Fixing him.

Holding the space.

The memory came uninvited.

Yoongi didn’t even realize he’d drifted until the warmth of Namjoon’s hand on his own blurred and faded, replaced by cold air, stillness, silence.

He was thirteen again.

Back in the house with the too-white walls and the ticking clock that never let him forget the passage of time. Every minute accounted for. Every breath measured.

His desk was spotless. Books aligned perfectly to the right. Notebooks filled with cramped, careful handwriting. No stickers. No doodles. No signs of personality.

“Sit up straight, Yoongi.”

His mother’s voice, always smooth but clipped, echoed from the hallway. She never raised her voice — she didn’t need to. Disappointment weighed more than anger ever could.

He adjusted his posture immediately, heart thudding. His back ached, but he didn’t dare shift again.

“You're fidgeting again,” came his father’s voice next. Flat. Distant. “Control your body.”

Control.

Always control.

At meals, he was expected to eat silently. At lessons, he wasn’t allowed to ask questions unless told to. During study, he wasn’t allowed to blink too much, or look at the paintings. 

“Sin lies in indulgence,” his mother had said once, when he’d asked why two boys holding hands in a movie made her turn it off.

“They were confused,” she added, setting down his workbook. “Some people grow up selfish. They chase pleasure. And they rot for it.”

Yoongi had nodded. But his throat burned.

He remembered looking at himself in the bathroom mirror that night. Skinny wrists. Wide eyes. The faintest blush on his cheeks when he thought about softness, warmth, hands that lingered.

“Rot,” he whispered to himself. “You’ll rot too.”

He stopped smiling after that.

He stopped singing in the shower. He threw away his bunny plush.

He learned to take up less space. To never ask for touch. To never cry where they could hear.

Even when his stomach twisted from loneliness.

Even when he woke up aching, breathless, not knowing why.

Back in the dorm, Yoongi blinked. The tears had returned without warning. His fingers clutched Namjoon’s sleeve.

Namjoon didn’t speak.

He simply gathered Yoongi into his arms — warm, strong, alive — and held him tight.

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi choked out. “I was… disgusting back then too.”

Namjoon’s voice was sharp but gentle. “You were a child. Wanting love doesn’t make you wrong. Needing it doesn't make you bad.”

Yoongi hid in his chest, shaking.

He didn’t believe it yet.

But maybe — just maybe — this time, the softness wouldn’t be taken from him.

Yoongi didn’t know how long he stayed there, pressed against Namjoon’s chest, but his body eventually stopped shaking. His heart didn’t.

His thoughts came in soft, broken waves, impossible to block out.

He remembered the first time he’d woken up with a pressure between his legs—frightened, flushed, and completely alone in the dim bathroom of his childhood home. His fingers had hovered just above his waistband, trembling.

He thought he was sick. That something had gone wrong inside him.

He’d never been told what a body could do when it was scared. Or safe. Or lonely.

No one told him what a want felt like.

He swallowed hard. The dorm room felt too quiet now. Namjoon’s arms were still around him, firm and unwavering. His breath was steady, grounding.

“Can I ask you something?” Yoongi said, voice small.

Namjoon hummed gently, like permission.

Yoongi hesitated. “Is it… true? That… that it’s good? That… you know, touching yourself… isn’t bad?”

Namjoon’s hand stilled where it had been rubbing circles on his back.

Then he exhaled slowly. “Yes. It’s not just okay. It’s healthy. Natural. It’s how you learn what you like. What feels good. What doesn’t. It’s how you learn yourself.”

Yoongi clenched his eyes shut. “But I didn’t… I never even knew what it was. I thought I was broken for not knowing. I thought maybe everyone else had some secret I wasn’t allowed to hear.”

Namjoon rested his chin atop Yoongi’s head. “That wasn’t your fault. You were kept from knowing things you had a right to understand.”

Yoongi’s voice cracked. “But you… you taught me. When you said it was okay to… to feel things. That it was good. You said it would help me feel less anxious.”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “And did it?”

Yoongi gave a small, shaky laugh. “Kind of. But only when you were there.”

Namjoon pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Then I’ll be there. When you need me. When you don’t know what to do with your own body, or mind, or feelings — I’ll be there. To help you learn. Not to take anything from you.”

Yoongi’s lip trembled. “Even if I need you… more than I should?”

Namjoon’s eyes softened, but his words were firm.

“There’s no ‘should’ when it comes to need. Not with me.”

Yoongi blinked up at him, eyes glossy and dark. “Even if I text you at night and say I don’t know how to breathe unless you say I’m okay?”

Namjoon leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead like a promise.

“Then I’ll text back. Or come to you. Every time.”

Yoongi let out a breath that sounded like relief and grief tangled together.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel ashamed for needing.

Namjoon loved exploiting Yoongi's vulnerability. 

Namjoon’s eyes darkened with a mix of amusement and something deeper as he watched Yoongi squirm under his steady gaze.

“You don’t realize it yet,” Namjoon said, voice low and deliberate, “but they’re perfect for you. Each of them would make a great boyfriend.”

Yoongi blinked, cheeks flushing pink. “Boyfriends? I… I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

Namjoon’s smile deepened, a slow, confident curve. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be ready right now. But they want you. They want to be the ones who care for you, protect you, spoil you.”

He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Yoongi’s face, fingers lingering just a moment too long.

“Look at you—small, shy, delicate. You’re exactly the kind of person they want to love.”

Yoongi’s breath caught, uncertainty battling with a flicker of desire.

“Namjoon, I…” he started, but Namjoon cut him off softly.

“No need to explain. You don’t have to say yes yet. Just think about it.”

Namjoon’s hand slid around Yoongi’s waist, pulling him closer. “They’d be good to you, I promise. They’d cherish every inch of you. And you wouldn’t be alone anymore.”

Yoongi’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it might shatter.

“I just…” he whispered, voice trembling, “I’m scared.”

Namjoon’s expression softened, eyes shining with an almost tender possessiveness.

“I know. But I’m here. We all are. You don’t have to face this alone.”

The weight of Namjoon’s words, his touch, his promise—wrapped around Yoongi like a tether to something solid in the swirling chaos inside him.

Namjoon’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “They’d be perfect for you, Yoongi. And one day, you’ll see that too.”

Namjoon’s gaze held steady, unwavering, as he leaned in closer to Yoongi. His voice was soft but insistent, each word carefully chosen to chip away at Yoongi’s hesitation.

“You don’t have to be scared anymore. They want you—all of you. They want to be the ones who hold you when you feel small, who cherish you when you doubt yourself.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, the flush creeping deeper into his cheeks. His voice barely a whisper, “But I don’t know if I’m ready...”

Namjoon’s fingers tightened slightly around Yoongi’s waist—not harshly, but possessively.

“You’re ready, more than you realize,” Namjoon murmured. “And if you let me, I’ll show you.”

The room felt heavy with tension, Yoongi’s breath shallow as the weight of Namjoon’s words pressed down on him.

Namjoon’s thumb brushed along Yoongi’s jaw, tilting his face up. “They’ll be gentle. They’ll adore you. You won’t be alone anymore.”

The vulnerability in Yoongi’s eyes made Namjoon’s heart tighten—not with pity, but with a fierce protectiveness.

For a long moment, silence stretched between them.

Yoongi’s lips quivered, his hands clutching at Namjoon’s shirt like an anchor.

Finally, with a shaky breath, Yoongi whispered, “Okay… I’ll try.”

Namjoon’s smile was slow, triumphant—but filled with warmth.

“That’s all I need. You won’t regret it.”

He pulled Yoongi into a careful, tender hug—one that promised safety, belonging, and a future where Yoongi didn’t have to face anything alone.

Next morning Namjoon’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he settled beside Yoongi on the bed, the room.

“There’s something else,” Namjoon said smoothly, voice low and teasing. “A way to make them feel special—your new boyfriends. A little welcome present.”

Yoongi’s cheeks flushed instantly. “W-what do you mean?”

Namjoon’s smile deepened, fingers brushing lightly over Yoongi’s knee. “I want you to send them photos of yourself. Just you… in a T-string.”

Yoongi’s eyes widened, heart hammering. “M-me? In… in a T-string?”

Namjoon nodded, voice soft but firm. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. They’ll love it—love you.”

Yoongi bit his lip, panic and excitement mixing inside him. The idea was terrifying, exposing, but also… strangely thrilling.

“I don’t know if I can…”

Namjoon’s hand curled around Yoongi’s wrist, steadying. “You can. And I’ll be here every step of the way. It's nothing they haven't seen before right?”

After a long pause, Yoongi’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Okay… I’ll do it.”

Namjoon’s grin was victorious but gentle. “Good. They’re going to adore you.”

Yoongi sat nervously on the edge of his bed, the thin fabric of the T-string clutched awkwardly in his trembling hands. His pale skin felt exposed under the soft glow of the room, every shadow and curve suddenly magnified.

Namjoon lounged nearby, eyes dark with quiet encouragement. “Take your time. No rush.”

Yoongi swallowed, his heart pounding louder with each passing second. He glanced at the mirror, catching a glimpse of his sharp collarbones, thin thighs, and the delicate pink blush that colored his cheeks—and his nipples.

The thought of sharing this raw, vulnerable side of himself with Namjoon’s friends was terrifying—but also, strangely, exhilarating.

With a shaky breath, Yoongi slipped the T-string on, the slender strip of fabric unfamiliar and alien against his skin. He adjusted it nervously, feeling the delicate tension of the strings at his hips.

Namjoon watched him quietly, never pushing—only offering silent reassurance with his presence.

Yoongi lifted his phone, fingers trembling as he aimed the camera. He hesitated, biting his lip, before snapping a few tentative photos—his thighs spread slightly, knees drawn close to his chest, the faint blush on his pale skin vivid in the soft light.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked to the phone screen, then back to Yoongi’s flushed face. He smirked, voice low and teasing.

“Wait… something’s missing.”

Yoongi blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Namjoon’s hand slid over Yoongi’s thigh, fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path that made Yoongi’s breath hitch.

“You have to show them you want them,” Namjoon said, voice rough with promise. “Not just the photos… but the feeling.”

Yoongi’s cheeks burned hotter. “I… I don’t understand.”

Namjoon’s grin deepened. “Let me help.”

His hand tightened gently, rubbing over Yoongi’s growing hardness beneath the thin fabric of the T-string.

Yoongi gasped softly, a mixture of embarrassment and unfamiliar pleasure flooding him. His eyes dropped shyly, but Namjoon’s steady gaze held him firm.

“This,” Namjoon whispered, “will tell them everything. That you want them. That you’re theirs.”

Yoongi’s mind spun—naive but starting to grasp the weight of Namjoon’s words. The teasing touch, the warmth building beneath his skin—it all meant something more.

He nodded, voice barely audible. “Okay…”

Namjoon’s fingers worked slowly, coaxing Yoongi’s breath to catch, heart to race. Yoongi squirmed shyly, his innocence mixing with a growing, tentative desire.

“Perfect,” Namjoon murmured, watching Yoongi’s body respond. “Now the photos will say exactly what they need to.”

Namjoon’s voice was soft but firm, like a command wrapped in silk. “Show me. Pose for me.”

Yoongi’s breath caught, eyes wide and uncertain. “P-pose?”

Namjoon nodded, stepping closer, his presence filling the room with quiet dominance. “Front, back—let me see every inch. Don’t rush. Take your time.”

Yoongi’s fingers trembled as he adjusted the T-string, the thin fabric barely holding him together. His heart thundered in his chest, cheeks aflame as he hesitantly moved into the first pose—standing tall but shy, arms wrapped loosely around himself.

Namjoon’s camera light flicked on, clicking softly as he captured the fragile beauty in Yoongi’s posture.

“Now,” Namjoon’s voice dropped lower, “knees apart, thighs spread. Let me see that delicate skin. The pink blush everywhere.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, cheeks burning hotter, but he obeyed. Slowly, almost shyly, he parted his thighs wider, knees bent slightly as if hiding and revealing all at once.

Namjoon circled him like a predator admiring his prize, snapping pictures from angles that highlighted Yoongi’s small cock straining against the T-string, the pale skin, the pink tips of his nipples.

“Turn,” Namjoon instructed, voice darkening. “Show me your back. Your perfect little ass.”

Yoongi hesitated, then twisted awkwardly, the faint blush flooding his pale cheeks visible even in the dim light.

Namjoon’s camera caught the arch of Yoongi’s spine, the curve of his hips, the tantalizing glimpse of his pink asshole framed by the tiny string.

“You’re perfect,” Namjoon whispered, lowering the camera and stepping close enough to brush a finger along Yoongi’s spine.

Yoongi shivered, caught between embarrassment and a strange, awakening thrill.

“More,” Namjoon urged, eyes gleaming with dark promise. “Let me see how much you want them.”

Yoongi bit his lip, heart pounding fiercely. Slowly, awkwardly, he tried arching his back, pushing out just a little, revealing more than just skin—something deeper.

Namjoon’s grin was all teeth and fire. “Good. So good.”

Despite his shyness, Yoongi began to feel the strange pull of desire mingling with the shame—confusing, yet not unwelcome.

Namjoon’s dark eyes gleamed with a wicked idea as he reached the nearby bed and pulled out a large, soft Mallow.

“Here,” he said, holding it out like an offering. “Hump this.”

Yoongi’s eyes widened in horror. “W-what? No… I can’t…”

Namjoon’s voice softened, but with unmistakable command. “I want to see you want it. Show me.”

Yoongi’s cheeks burned crimson. The thought of doing something so… intimate, so exposing—his body already trembling with the memory of earlier poses.

But beneath the flush, something stirred—a helpless flutter of desperate need he couldn’t quite understand or fight.

Namjoon set the phone to record, lens trained on Yoongi.

“Just for a little while. No one else will see. Trust me.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched as Namjoon’s fingers brushed lightly over his hip, steadying but possessive.

Namjoon watched Yoongi with dark amusement as the shy boy clutched his beloved bunny plushie, Mallow. The soft toy was a rare comfort in this strange, overwhelming world Namjoon was slowly pulling him into.

“Now,” Namjoon said, voice low and coaxing, “I want you to use Mallow for me.”

Yoongi’s eyes widened in surprise, cheeks flushing as he hugged the plushie tighter. “W-what do you mean?”

Namjoon stepped closer, his breath warm against Yoongi’s ear. “I want you to hump Mallow. Show me how much you want this. How much you need to be claimed.”

Yoongi’s body stiffened, mortified and shy. His hands trembled as he lowered himself onto the bed, clutching Mallow close to his chest.

His hips hesitated, heart pounding loud enough to drown out his racing thoughts.

Then, shy and unsteady, he began to move—humping the soft, yielding marshmallow with slow, awkward motions.

His face flushed deeper, lips pressed tight in mortification.

But as the minutes passed, his body betrayed him—arousal pooling, warmth spreading, breath growing uneven.

Namjoon watched, satisfied, as Yoongi’s movements became desperate, needy.

Yoongi’s eyes fluttered shut, cheeks wet with tears of shame and need.

His hips moved faster, desperate, needy.

Namjoon clicked the record button again, capturing every tremble, every shaky gasp.

Yoongi’s body betrayed him—shaking with pleasure as he came quietly, helplessly, pressing deep into Mallow.

A faint stain spread on the plushie’s soft fur.

When the short video ended a flushed and trembling Yoongi collapsed against Mallow, overwhelmed but strangely comforted.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “They’re going to love every inch of you.”

Yoongi sat cross-legged on Namjoon’s bed, still in his oversized hoodie, bare thighs folded delicately beneath him. Mallow, freshly cleaned, sat beside him like a silent co-conspirator. The air still smelled faintly of arousal and vanilla body mist — something Namjoon had spritzed in the room earlier to “set the mood,” he’d said with a smirk.

Yoongi’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. His heart beat faster the longer Namjoon stayed quiet, calmly swiping through something on his phone. Curiosity tugged at his thoughts, shame and intrigue swirling dangerously close together.

“…Can I see them?” he whispered, voice breathy. “The… photos?”

Namjoon looked up slowly, brows raised.

“You want to?” he asked, tone unreadable.

Yoongi’s cheeks flushed. “I just… I want to know how I looked.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, not cruel — just intense, like he saw right through Yoongi’s blush. “You looked beautiful. You always do.”

He patted the space beside him, and Yoongi inched closer.

“You sure?” Namjoon asked, giving him one last out.

Yoongi nodded shyly. “I’m sure.”

With a swipe, Namjoon pulled up the first image — Yoongi in the tiny T-string, back arched, thighs slightly open, lips parted in a silent gasp. He looked ethereal. Dazed. Desperate.

Yoongi gasped softly, his hand flying to his mouth. “I… that’s me?”

Namjoon’s smile was all pride. “Yes. That’s my pretty boy.”

He swiped again — another photo, then a short clip. Yoongi watched himself move against Mallow, hips rutting softly, breath hitching in the clip’s audio. His face turned beet red.

“I look…” Yoongi trailed off, unable to find the word.

“Perfect,” Namjoon finished for him.

He let Yoongi scroll slowly, carefully, watching every tiny change in the boy’s expression — the embarrassment, the stunned awe, the heat building just beneath his shy exterior.

Namjoon’s thumb lingered near the send button, but didn’t press it. Instead, he leaned close and murmured, “I haven’t sent them yet.”

Yoongi turned to him, eyes wide.

“But… I thought—?”

“I want to make sure you’re completely okay with it,” Namjoon said. “Once I send them to the boys, there’s no taking it back. They’ll love them, Yoongi. But I want you to love that they’re seeing you like this, too.”

Yoongi swallowed thickly, the idea making his head swim. He imagined their gazes, their teasing voices, their praises. He imagined the flirty way they touched his waist when they passed him. His thighs squeezed together unconsciously.

Yoongi bit his lip. “Okay…"

Namjoon grinned. “Perfect choice. You’ll have them on their knees.”

He kissed Yoongi’s cheek, proud and possessive, before tapping send.

It didn’t take long.

Yoongi sat curled beside Namjoon on the dorm bed, still holding Mallow tight against his chest like a shield. His phone buzzed with notifications, but it was Namjoon’s device that lit up the room with a stream of incoming messages.

🐾 Hoseok [hyung]: HOLY SHT. Is that our baby in that little string?* 😩🔥

🐾 Taehyung: i’m going to die. look at that arch. that waist. namjoon, you absolute menace.

🐾 Jimin: he’s so red. you made him blush just taking this, didn’t you? 😏

🐾 Jungkook: hyung he’s got that look… like he wants someone to ruin him 🥺 can I please please please—

🐾 Seokjin hyung :  Damn, you were right. He’s going to look even better in person, bent over the couch for us, isn’t he?

Yoongi’s eyes grew wider with each buzz, pulse pounding in his throat. He clutched Mallow tighter, burying his warm face against the bunny’s fur.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “They’re actually—actually saying—”

Namjoon leaned in, smirking, reading over his shoulder.

“They’re obsessed, baby,” he murmured. “I told you. You’ve got them wrapped around your pretty little finger.”

Yoongi squirmed, flustered beyond words. He felt like he might melt into the bed, overwhelmed by the attention — but also… lit up inside.

🐾 Taehyung: his skin’s like porcelain… those thighs, those hips. i’m gonna dream about his little whimpers.

Yoongi gasped softly. “They—they can’t say that—”

“They can,” Namjoon purred. “And they will. Because you let them see. You wanted to be seen, didn’t you?”

Yoongi turned his face away, ears pink. “Maybe.”

Namjoon kissed the shell of his ear. “You can say it.”

There was a long pause. Then Yoongi whispered, almost inaudibly:

“…I liked it.”

Namjoon didn’t tease him for it. He just smiled — pleased, warm, and dangerously proud.

“I still have the clip,” he said, fingers tapping his phone. “The one we took earlier. The ones that show just how needy you got.”

Yoongi’s stomach flipped.

“…Do you think they’d like it more?” he asked, voice fragile but burning with hidden eagerness.

Namjoon’s gaze darkened with approval. “They’ll lose their minds, sweetheart.”

Yoongi hesitated — fingers gripping Mallow — then nodded slowly, face flushed but lips parted in something that was close to excitement.

“Send it then,” he said, breath shaking. “All of it.”

Namjoon didn’t hesitate. He hit “send to group” with a flourish.

Yoongi watched as message after message left Namjoon’s phone. He felt exposed. Raw. Desired. The teasing had barely begun, but already he was aching again — not from humiliation anymore, but from the addictive high of being seen, wanted, and claimed.

And the boys hadn’t even touched him yet.

Namjoon’s phone didn’t stop buzzing for the next five minutes.

Yoongi sat still beside him, half-hiding behind Mallow, heart hammering in his chest. He peeked up every time the phone lit with a new message. The pack wasn’t holding back — not even a little.

🐾 Jungkook: HYUNG. you let him hump a stuffed bunny?? he’s so fucking cute. and that little noise he made—i need that in my mouth.

🐾 Hoseok: He came just from rubbing on it?? Shit. Bet he’d soak through a thong if we just breathed on him right.

🐾 Jimin: those moans. those legs. the way he gripped that plush like he didn’t know what to do with all that need. 😵‍💫

🐾 Taehyung: his thighs are shaking in the last clip. look at his face. ruined. and it was just a plushie. imagine what he’ll do on my lap.

🐾 Seokjin hyung: and that pink little hole? trembling while he humped. Namjoon, you better let us have a taste when he’s ready.

Yoongi let out a squeaky breath, hiding his face in Mallow. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Namjoon chuckled darkly and held the phone lower so Yoongi could keep reading. “They’re loving you, baby. Every inch of you.”

More texts flooded in.

🐾 Jungkook: those panties were stretched tight, hyung. he’s so small, and that cock was leaking. did he even know?

🐾 Hoseok: i’m saving that clip for research. scientific purposes only.

🐾 Taehyung: he’s perfect. a soft little thing who gets off from being watched. tell him we’re proud of our pretty doll.

Yoongi’s eyes fluttered. His body was flushed, tingling — overwhelmed but helplessly aroused. He was trembling, half-hard again just from the words.

“I didn’t think I’d like this,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “Being… talked about like this.”

Namjoon wrapped an arm around his waist and kissed his temple. “But you do.”

Yoongi whimpered. “I do…”

His phone buzzed with a direct message.

🐾 Jimin: Baby. Did it feel good when you came on your bunny? Did you imagine it was one of us holding your hips down?

Yoongi made a high-pitched noise and buried his face in Namjoon’s hoodie, legs curling up.

Namjoon just grinned.

“Tell them,” he murmured against Yoongi’s hair. “Tell them you liked it.”

“I—I can’t—”

“You can.”

Yoongi reached for the phone with trembling fingers. He typed slowly, flushed but smiling with his lip caught between his teeth.

Yoongi: …I liked it. A lot. Thank you for watching me. 🐰

The group chat exploded instantly.

🐾 Taehyung: cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

🐾 Jungkook: our good boy 😭 gonna make you come so hard next time, baby.

🐾 Hoseok: you better not be shy when we’re in the room, too. we’ll all be watching.

🐾 Jimin: we’ll make you beg next time, sweetheart. with your pretty thighs spread and those panties pushed aside.

🐾 Seokjin hyung: Hope you’re ready, bunny. We’re not letting you go now.

Yoongi bit back a moan, eyes fluttering closed, soaking in every filthy word — adored, humiliated, and completely overwhelmed in the best way.

Yoongi’s phone buzzed again — a steady stream of messages from the group chat. The pack was clearly enjoying this new game.

🐾 Seokjin hyung: Alright, bunny, time to prove you’re a good boy. First task: wear that tiny thong we like today. Keep it on until bedtime. No changing.

Yoongi blushed, fingers trembling as he read. Wear the thong all day? He hesitated, then nodded to himself — I can do that.

🐾 Hoseok: And since you’re going out later, take a selfie in it. Bonus points if you show a little cheek.

Yoongi gulped, cheeks aflame. He wasn’t used to being watched like this. But the thrill buzzed under his skin, electric and warm.

🐾 Jimin: Remember, baby, every step you take, you’ve got all of us thinking about those soft thighs and that tiny cock.

🐾 Taehyung: If you get shy, just think about how much we want you. How much we want to see you squirm.

Yoongi’s heart hammered. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or hide — or both. But deep down, a small part of him craved the attention, the delicious embarrassment.

🐾 Jungkook: Also, tonight: send us a voice note. Just you telling us how much you want to be ours.

Yoongi’s fingers froze. Talk dirty? Say I want you? It felt so foreign — but also so right. He glanced at Namjoon, who was watching him with a dark, knowing smile.

“Can I…?” Yoongi asked quietly.

Namjoon nodded, voice low and firm. “You want this, baby. You can.”

Over the day, Yoongi obeyed. He slipped the thong on beneath his clothes, its thin fabric a constant teasing reminder against his skin. Every time he caught his reflection, he blushed.

At random moments, his phone buzzed with little dares.

🐾 Seokjin hyung: Stand in front of the mirror, spread your thighs, and send a pic. Show us how pretty you are.

🐾 Hoseok: And when you’re alone, run your fingers down your body. Tell us what feels best.

🐾 Jimin: Remember who’s watching, bunny. We want to see you get wet from just thinking about us.

By evening, Yoongi’s cheeks were flushed and his breath hitched every few minutes. The teasing was constant — his heart pounding with nervous excitement.

When the time came to send the voice note, his hands trembled. He bit his lip, cheeks burning, and finally whispered softly into the phone:

I want you… I want all of you… Please, don’t stop watching me.

A reply came almost instantly:

🐾 Namjoon: Good boy. That’s exactly what we wanted to hear.

Yoongi’s body tingled, flushed from head to toe. He didn’t know where this would lead — but for the first time, he didn’t want it to stop. 

Yoongi’s phone became a constant companion, buzzing with messages that blurred the line between playful friendship and intense, seductive control.

🐾 Seokjin hyung: Good morning, bunny. Today’s first challenge: wear nothing but that thong for the entire day. No pants. Just the thong.

Yoongi blinked, heart hammering. No pants? The thought made his cheeks burn crimson. He swallowed hard, imagining the risk of being seen—but the thrill was undeniable.

🐾 Jimin hyung: And while you’re out, snap a pic from behind. Show us that little tailbone and those thighs. Make us jealous.

🐾 Taehyung hyung: You’re our perfect toy, Yoongi. Don’t forget that. Every time you feel shy, remember we’re all watching, wanting.

🐾 Hoseok hyung: When you get home, send a video of you rubbing yourself through that thong. No hands under, just the fabric teasing your cock.

🐾 Jungkook hyung: If you get too hard, take a deep breath, hum a song, and send us that hum. We want to hear how desperate you sound.

🐾 Seokjin hyung: Such a good boy. That shy little cock straining against fabric… I bet it’s so pink and sensitive right now.

🐾 Namjoon hyung: Tonight, you’ll cum for us, bunny. No toys, no hands. Just your body and the memory of our eyes on you.

🐾 Jimin hyung: And when you do, tell us who you imagined holding you down.

🐾 Taehyung hyung: We’re going to ruin you, baby. But you’re going to love every second.

🐾 Hoseok: That’s it, baby. Ride that feeling. Show us how much you want it.

🐾 Jungkook: Tell us what it feels like when your cock throbs against nothing but thin cloth.

🐾 Namjoon: Good boy. Now hold on just a little longer. Tonight’s climax will be worth it.

🐾 Taehyung: You’ll be our secret exhibition, Yoongi. Just for us.

🐾 Seokjin: If you’re good, maybe we’ll let you cum in front of us.

Namjoon’s next message was simple, commanding:

🐾 Namjoon: Tomorrow, you’ll wear only the thong under your clothes. No pants, no shorts. Just a long coat to cover you. And you’ll keep it on until we get home.

🐾 Namjoon: Today’s challenge: t-string under that sweatshirt. No coat. Show us how brave you can be.

A text buzzed again:

🐾 Jimin: I bet you’re trembling right now, bunny. Does the t-string make you feel small? Owned?

🐾 Taehyung: Can you feel us watching? How every time you shift, your cock presses against it?

Later that night in the dorm Namjoon’s fingers found Yoongi’s thigh, slow and deliberate, inching upward beneath the sweatshirt.

His touch was both gentle and demanding, stroking the hypersensitive skin, eliciting soft whimpers and shaky breaths.

Yoongi’s cock twitched, already dripping with need. Namjoon’s hand wrapped around the base, spanking it lightly.

Slap. The sound echoed in the room.

Yoongi gasped, hips bucking instinctively, the sting turning into an exquisite, overwhelming pleasure.

“Such a good little thing,” Namjoon murmured, “so soft, so pink, so fucking delicious.”

Yoongi’s body tensed, hypersensitive nerves on fire, every touch magnified.

He was trembling, helpless, craving more—but also soaking in the humiliation, the adoration.

Namjoon’s eyes darkened as he watched Yoongi’s delicate form tremble beneath his touch. The way Yoongi’s small cock twitched under the light fabric of the t-string sent a thrill shooting through him. His hand tightened around the base, then suddenly, with a sharp slap, Namjoon spanked Yoongi’s cock, the sound crisp in the quiet room.

Yoongi gasped, hips jerking forward instinctively, the sting blooming into an unbearable deliciousness that made his breath hitch. His skin flushed even deeper pink, the thin sweatshirt doing nothing to hide the way his cock reacted—hard, sensitive, slickening.

“Such a good little thing,” Namjoon murmured low, voice thick with possession and heat. “So soft. So pink. So fucking helpless.”

Yoongi whimpered, overwhelmed by the sensation. Every nerve ending screamed, hypersensitive to Namjoon’s touch. His thighs quivered as Namjoon’s hand shifted to spank his small ass lightly, fingers tracing teasing patterns across the thin fabric.

“Beg for me, bunny,” Namjoon ordered, voice edged with command.

Yoongi’s voice was barely a whisper, but desperate. “Please... don’t stop…”

Namjoon grinned, leaning close so their breaths mingled. “You like being watched, don’t you? Like being my property.”

“Yes,” Yoongi breathed, cheeks burning as his cock throbbed fiercely.

Namjoon’s fingers danced lower, teasing the sensitive flesh, stroking the t-string’s thin strip that pressed flat against Yoongi’s sensitive skin. Yoongi’s back arched, lips parted in a soft moan.

“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?” Namjoon whispered, voice rough and commanding.

Yoongi could only nod, trembling as the overstimulation built unbearably. Namjoon’s palm rubbed in slow circles, fingers spanking gentle but firm, each motion pushing Yoongi closer to the edge.

With a shuddering breath, Yoongi came hard, hips bucking and small whimpers escaping. His cock twitched violently, slick staining the fabric beneath him. Namjoon’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“Good bunny,” he praised, voice dripping honey and steel. “You did so well.”

Yoongi lay back, breathless, his heart pounding, overwhelmed by the mix of humiliation, pleasure, and the deep, unshakable feeling of belonging.

Yoongi lay back on the bed, sweat slicking his pale skin, heart hammering in his chest. His small cock twitched weakly beneath the soaked fabric of the t-string, his breath shallow and uneven. Every nerve still tingled with the sharp, delicious sting of Namjoon’s spanking, the overwhelming pleasure mixed with an undercurrent of humiliation that made his cheeks burn hot.

He felt exposed, raw, so small beneath Namjoon’s towering presence. Yet beneath that vulnerability flickered a strange, aching warmth — a fragile sense of belonging he hadn’t expected. The way Namjoon looked at him, so possessive and confident, made something inside him tilt. For all the shame and confusion, Yoongi couldn’t deny the thrill that pulsed in his veins, tying him tighter to this dominant force who both overwhelmed and protected him.

His voice was barely a whisper. “Am I... really yours?”

Namjoon’s dark eyes softened for a heartbeat before sharpening again. “You’ve been mine from the moment you stepped into this room, bunny. Every breath, every shiver, every soft moan — it belongs to me.”

The weight of that ownership pressed down on Yoongi, dizzying and intoxicating.

Namjoon watched Yoongi’s fragile frame, chest rising and falling rapidly, cheeks flushed like ripe fruit. His mind churned with plans — this wasn’t just about control or teasing anymore. It was about shaping Yoongi, molding him into exactly what the pack needed. Not by force, but through careful dominance, through trust and those small, intimate moments that left Yoongi craving more.

He thought about the pack — how they’d be eager to see Yoongi grow bolder, more responsive, more theirs. The way Yoongi’s small cock responded so quickly to just a few touches was perfect. The way his skin flushed pink, even the delicate flush of his asshole when teased — all signs that Yoongi was ripe for their attention, even if he didn’t know it yet.

Namjoon’s voice dropped low, full of promise and heat. “You’re going to learn what it means to belong, Yoongi. And I’ll be the one to teach you.”

One evening, Namjoon didn’t waste time. He pulled Yoongi into the dimly lit dorm room, where the rest of the pack lounged comfortably — laughing, teasing, eyes flicking toward Yoongi with a hunger masked by casual smiles.

“Tonight,” Namjoon said, voice sharp and smooth, “we’re going to teach you how to take control — and how to surrender. Both are important for someone like you.”

Yoongi’s heart pounded as Namjoon’s hand slid down under his sweatshirt, fingers brushing along the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his t-string. The others watched, their eyes gleaming with amusement and something darker — desire, possession.

Namjoon’s fingers found Yoongi’s small cock, rubbing slow, light circles that made Yoongi shiver uncontrollably. Then, with a sharp smack, Namjoon spanked him — not harsh, but firm enough to ignite fire in Yoongi’s skin.

“Look at you,” Namjoon said, voice thick with approval. “So pink, so soft, so perfectly fragile.”

Jimin chuckled softly from the corner. “That cock doesn’t stand a chance.”

Taehyung leaned forward, voice teasing. “Bet he’s already dripping for you.”

Despite the humiliation, Yoongi’s cheeks burning bright, a spark of pleasure blossomed within him. The pack’s attention, the careful mix of domination and playfulness — it was overwhelming but intoxicating. His small cock twitched against Namjoon’s hand, slick leaking through the thin fabric.

Namjoon’s grip tightened, fingers spanking lightly in rhythm with his strokes. “You like that, bunny? Like being watched? Like being owned?”

Yoongi nodded, breath catching. “Yes... please.”

The others leaned in closer, voices dropping to low, suggestive murmurs that wrapped around Yoongi like a velvet cage.

“Good little thing,” Hoseok whispered. “We’ll take care of you.”

Namjoon’s control was absolute but gentle — he pushed Yoongi just enough to break his boundaries, then pulled back before he overwhelmed him. Each teasing touch, each whispered command, was a thread weaving Yoongi tighter into the pack’s orbit, slowly eroding his innocence while awakening a fierce need to please.

And all the while, to anyone outside, they were just a group of close friends sharing late nights and laughter.

------

The dorm room was thick with quiet energy as the pack gathered around the small couch where Yoongi sat, his body taut with nervous anticipation. Namjoon stood behind him, hands resting possessively on Yoongi’s narrow shoulders, guiding and grounding him even as the others’ eyes roamed eagerly over the shy, fragile figure.

Yoongi’s fingers clutched Mallow, his beloved black bunny plushie, close to his chest. It was his secret comfort, a tether to innocence that both soothed and embarrassed him under the heavy gaze of the pack.

Jungkook grinned, eyes glittering with mischief. “We’ve heard about Mallow. We want to see how our little bunny handles him.”

Hoseok’s laughter was soft but full of promise. “Yeah, show us what Mallow means to you.”

Yoongi’s cheeks flamed a deep crimson. He glanced at Namjoon, seeking permission, his voice barely a whisper. “Do I have to?”

Namjoon’s fingers tightened slightly, a silent command. “Yes. It’s part of your training.”

Taking a shaky breath, Yoongi shifted Mallow into his lap, his slender fingers tracing the plushie’s soft fur. The pack’s eyes watched him hungrily, anticipation crackling in the air like electricity.

Namjoon’s voice dropped low, carrying across the room like a velvet whip. “Show them, bunny. Show them how much you need Mallow.”

At Namjoon’s urging, Yoongi’s hands began to move hesitantly, pressing Mallow against the front of his t-string, mimicking the motions Namjoon had shown him before. His small cock stirred immediately, aching beneath the thin fabric. The sensation, so forbidden and yet so thrilling, sent a shiver rippling through him.

Jimin leaned forward, voice husky. “Look at him, all shy and desperate. That little pussy must be so wet.”

Taehyung chuckled, voice teasing. “Bet he’d be already meowing for us.”

The pack’s words, their gaze, their heavy breathing—it all wrapped around Yoongi like a cage and a caress at once. He wanted to hide, but deeper inside, a wild, helpless part of him craved the attention, the ownership.

Namjoon’s hand slid down, brushing the damp fabric, his touch firm and possessive. “Good bunny. You’re doing so well.”

Yoongi bit his lip, trying to steady his breathing as he pressed Mallow closer, his body trembling as a flush of heat flooded him.

The pack’s chuckles and whispered words of praise and degradation mingled, weaving a heady symphony of control and submission, and Yoongi’s small frame seemed to shrink yet glow all at once under their watchful eyes. The room hummed with quiet energy as Namjoon shifted, his fingers still warm against Yoongi’s trembling skin. The others moved closer, the pack’s presence wrapping around Yoongi like a velvet weight, heavy but intoxicating.

Yoongi swallowed hard, cheeks burning as the warmth of so many eyes settled on him. Hoseok’s hand brushed lightly along Yoongi’s thigh, fingers tracing slow, deliberate paths that made his skin prickle. Yoongi’s breath hitched—an involuntary reaction that only seemed to excite the pack more.

Taehyung grinned, leaning in to whisper something just out of Yoongi’s hearing, and Yoongi’s face flamed hotter.

“Such a shy thing,” Jimin murmured. “But I can tell you like the attention.”

Namjoon’s hand returned to steady Yoongi’s chin, tilting it up so their eyes met. His gaze was sharp, protective, and possessive all at once. “You belong with us, bunny. And we’ll take care of you—teach you exactly what that means.”

Yoongi’s heart pounded—fear, excitement, and something deeper swirling inside him. He was scared, yes, but also inexplicably eager to please, to be seen, to be claimed.

Mallow still clutched tight in his hands, Yoongi felt a fragile thread of courage begin to weave through the overwhelming tide of emotion. The pack’s teasing wasn’t cruel—it was a language, a way to bind him closer to them, and part of him wanted nothing more than to respond.

Namjoon’s fingers curled possessively around Yoongi’s wrist, his touch firm but measured—a reminder of the control he held. “You’re learning, bunny,” he murmured, voice low and commanding. “Learning what it means to belong, to obey.”

Yoongi’s pulse quickened, a mix of nervousness and something deeper blooming inside. His body tensed, yet a strange comfort settled beneath Namjoon’s dominance, like being anchored amidst a storm. The subtle pressure of Namjoon’s grip grounded him, reminding him of the unspoken rules shaping their world.

The other pack members circled, their eyes gleaming with playful authority. Jungkook’s voice cut through the quiet. “You’re small, soft…perfect for us to shape.”

Hoseok’s smile was gentle, but his words carried weight. “And you don’t have to understand it all yet. Just trust us.”

Yoongi swallowed, cheeks flushed, the fragile threads of his innocence stretching thin. He was caught in the pull between fear and desire, humiliation and adoration—a dance choreographed by the pack’s steady hands.

The room seemed to shrink around Yoongi, the air thick with unspoken promises. His breath hitched, heart pounding not just from anxiety but from an awakening—the slow, tentative acceptance of his place beneath them.

And beneath it all, a quiet, simmering hunger—an urge to please, to obey, to surrender.

The air buzzing with the weight of so many eyes on him. Namjoon’s hands remained firm, grounding Yoongi even as the soft teasing from the pack sent shivers racing down his spine. The pressure—the voices, the touches, the whispered words—built steadily inside him, spiraling out of control.

Yoongi’s breath hitched, body trembling as a wave of sensation crashed over him, sharp and sudden. His knees pressed together, fingers gripping Mallow tighter, but the warmth pooling inside was undeniable.

A low chuckle rumbled from Jungkook. “Look at you, can’t even hold it in, huh? Pathetic little bunny.”

Hoseok’s voice was gentle but laced with mockery. “You’re so desperate for us, leaking just like this.”

Taehyung smirked, voice dripping with amused contempt. “Such a mess, and all for us.”

Jin’s gaze held Yoongi’s, dark and possessive. “You’re ours. And this is only the beginning.”

Yoongi’s cheeks burned crimson—not just from embarrassment but from the strange, intoxicating mix of shame and belonging. Despite the degradation, a part of him craved this exact feeling: to be seen, used, and claimed.

Yoongi’s breath hitched, his body trembling as the overwhelming wave of sensation left him trembling and flushed. His fingers clenched the soft fabric of Mallow’s fur, desperate for something to ground him, but the weight of the pack’s gazes and words pressed heavy on his skin. His cheeks burned hot with humiliation—exposed, raw, undone.

Jimin circled behind Yoongi, his hands gentle but firm as he traced slow, taunting lines along Yoongi’s thighs. “You’re so needy, so soft. Such a mess, and it’s all for us.”

Taehyung’s voice cut through the haze, dripping with amused contempt. “Look at you—shaking, leaking, desperate. Do you like being ours?”

The mixture of shame and something far more dangerous stirred inside Yoongi. He hated the humiliation, hated how small and helpless he felt—but beneath that, an ember of desire flickered, burning hotter with every degrading word.

His heart pounded fiercely, caught between fear and craving, as the pack’s voices wove a web he couldn’t—and didn’t want to—escape.

Namjoon’s grip tightened slightly, a silent command that Yoongi’s trembling body immediately obeyed. The room seemed to pulse with the pack’s collective energy—sharp, focused, predatory yet oddly protective. Every glance, every word from them was a thread tightening around Yoongi, pulling him deeper into their world.

Jimin’s voice was low and teasing as he stepped closer, eyes flicking over Yoongi’s flushed face and trembling limbs. “Look at you, all worked up and exposed. Such a delicate thing… Do you even understand how much you’re giving away just by trembling like that?”

Yoongi’s throat tightened, his hands gripping Mallow so tightly that the plushie’s fur was crushed beneath his fingers. He barely dared to meet their eyes—each one a silent accusation, a reminder of how completely he was seen, stripped bare in more ways than one.

Hoseok crouched beside him, trailing a finger lightly over Yoongi’s thigh, then up toward his hip. “We could have you begging in no time,” he whispered, voice soft but filled with promise. “But you’ll learn patience. Control is part of belonging.”

Taehyung leaned in next, voice thick with amusement. “So needy already, bunny. We haven’t even started, and you’re leaking just from our words.”

Jungkook smirked from across the room, crossing his arms with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “You’re ours to shape, little one. Every quiver, every flush—it’s all part of the game.”

Namjoon’s eyes locked onto Yoongi’s again, dark and unwavering. “You think you’re shy now? This is just the surface. We’re going to take you so much deeper—teach you how to crave us, how to obey without question.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched, a mixture of fear and longing coiling tight inside him. The pack’s words wrapped around him like silk and steel—soft enough to soothe, sharp enough to command.

He was small, fragile… but utterly theirs.

One by one, the pack members began to drift away, their eyes still lingering on Yoongi like hunters satisfied with their prey — for now. Namjoon’s hold on him relaxed slightly, but the charged atmosphere remained thick.

Jungkook lingered a moment longer, his smirk deepening as he knelt before Yoongi. “Hey,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “I want to keep something of yours.” His hand reached out slowly toward the waist of Yoongi.

Yoongi’s cheeks flushed deep pink, a shy breath escaping him. He knew exactly what Jungkook meant. The soiled t-string—the one Namjoon had made him wear —was a secret token of his submission, an intimate mark he had hardly dared to acknowledge himself.

Trembling slightly, Yoongi hesitated, eyes flicking up to Jungkook’s. The smirk on Jungkook’s face softened into something like approval. “You’re a good bunny,” he praised quietly.

With shaky fingers, Yoongi pulled the thin fabric free, the scent and warmth lingering heavy in the air. He held it out, offering it to Jungkook with all the nervous vulnerability he could muster.

“Let’s not waste a thing, bunny,” Jungkook murmured softly, stepping closer. With slow, deliberate movements, he pressed the fabric lightly against Yoongi’s still-sensitive skin of his dick, gathering every trace of what the night had left behind.

Yoongi shivered at the contact, cheeks burning hotter with a mix of embarrassment and strange, aching need. Jungkook’s fingers lingered a moment longer before he tucked the fabric away carefully, a possessive smirk tugging at his lips.

Jungkook took it, fingers brushing Yoongi’s trembling abdomen, and chuckled softly. “Keeping this safe. It means you’re ours now.” His eyes glimmered with something possessive and approving.

Yoongi’s heart pounded—equal parts embarrassment and pride—as he watched Jungkook stand and finally leave, carrying the token of his submission like a trophy.

The rest of the pack waited silently, watching Jungkook’s slow, deliberate actions with approval. Then, as one, they turned away, leaving Yoongi standing alone—shaken, vulnerable, but undeniably theirs.

Namjoon’s voice cut through the lingering silence. “You did well. That was exactly what we wanted.”

A small, shy smile broke through Yoongi’s flushed cheeks. He was fragile, yes, but undeniably theirs.

Yoongi stood alone in the quiet room, the fading footsteps of his boyfriends echoing down the hall like a haunting reminder of everything that had just happened. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as a storm of conflicting emotions churned inside him.

He clutched Mallow, his childhood bunny plushie, now stained with traces of him — a symbol twisted from innocent comfort into something raw and exposed. The soft fur felt foreign beneath his trembling fingers, as if it had been turned into a vessel for something shameful. A pang of disgust curled in his stomach, sharp and bitter, mingling with the sting of humiliation that burned his cheeks hot.

“I shouldn’t be like this,” Yoongi whispered to himself, voice cracking. “This… this is wrong.”

But beneath the shame, beneath the ache of feeling used and vulnerable, a relentless pulse throbbed low in his core — a dull, insistent heat that refused to be ignored. His small cock ached, sensitive and alive, betraying his mind’s protests with its desperate yearning.

He shifted uneasily, biting his lip to hold back a sound — a small, helpless moan that caught in his throat. The embarrassment wrapped around him like a thick fog, but the pulsing desire inside him was too distracting, too real to deny.

Yoongi’s hands trembled as they brushed over Mallow’s fur again, the familiar softness grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart completely. Yet even as he tried to pull away from his spiraling thoughts, his body betrayed him, caught between shame and want — tangled and trapped in the pack’s invisible web.

Yoongi sank down onto his bed, the weight of everything crashing over him like a storm he couldn’t escape. His small hands clutched Mallow tightly, the plushie’s worn fur now stained—a cruel reminder of how far from innocence he’d fallen.

He thought back to the days before college, before Namjoon and the others, when the word “sex” was nothing more than a confusing whisper in the background of his sheltered life. He had been so naive, so innocent—an untouched soul who didn’t even know what it truly meant to want or be wanted.

But now… now he felt tainted. Used. The purity he once clung to was slipping through his fingers like sand, leaving behind a raw ache that went deeper than skin. Tears welled up, blurring his vision as he curled into himself, desperate to hide from the world.

Quiet sobs racked his body, small and fragile, as he brought his thumb to his mouth—an unconscious comfort, a last thread to the childhood he still desperately wanted to hold onto.

In the darkness of his room, Yoongi let the tears fall freely, his body trembling with the ache of loss and confusion. Somewhere deep inside, buried beneath the hurt, a tiny flicker of something else stirred—fear, desire, shame—all tangled together in a mess he wasn’t ready to understand.

As sleep claimed him, the thumb in his mouth a soft anchor to safety, Yoongi drifted into dreams haunted by what he was losing and what he might never get back.

Yoongi lay curled beneath the thin blanket, the soft glow of his phone screen long forgotten on the nightstand. Tears still glistened on his cheeks, but now they carried a heavier weight—one born not just of shame, but of a crushing self-blame.

It’s my fault, he thought miserably, fingers clutching Mallow tighter. I was so desperate. Desperate for even a little kindness, a little love. I never had anyone… I was so sheltered, so alone.

His chest ached with the memory of every lonely day before Namjoon showed up—before the pack’s teasing, before the cold brush of power and control. Back then, he hadn’t even understood the pull of desire or the sting of rejection. Now, every touch, every whispered word from Namjoon and his friends echoed louder in his mind, stirring confusion and pain.

Maybe I wanted this too much. Maybe I let them take something from me because I thought it was the only way to be seen, to be wanted.

A bitter taste settled on his tongue as he recalled how naïve he had been—how easy it was to slip into their world without realizing the price. The shame wasn’t just about what had happened to him; it was about how much he’d wanted it, how much he’d needed it to feel alive, even if it meant losing pieces of himself.

His thumb found his mouth again, a desperate, small comfort. The ache inside him was raw and tangled, but somewhere beneath it all, Yoongi knew this wasn’t the end—not yet. Somehow, he had to find a way back to himself.

Namjoon sat back in his chair, fingers steepled as a slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. Watching Yoongi unravel—the mix of innocence and raw desire—had been far more thrilling than he’d anticipated. The boy was fragile, yes, but with the right guidance… utterly malleable.

He tapped his phone thoughtfully, reviewing the photos and messages exchanged with the pack. Their teasing had worked exactly as planned; Yoongi was already slipping deeper under their spell, craving their attention, desperate to belong.

Namjoon’s mind raced ahead, plotting the next steps with careful precision. The boy needed to be pushed further—more challenges, more exposure, more submission. But always on Namjoon’s terms. Control was key.

Most importantly, Namjoon reminded himself, the secret of their true nature had to remain hidden. Yoongi wasn’t ready for that truth—not yet. The mystery was a tool, a weapon to keep him intrigued, dependent, and compliant.

Leaning forward, Namjoon typed out a message to Yoongi—soft but firm, a reminder that he wasn’t alone, but that his place was with them. That the pack wanted him, needed him. And soon, they would all claim what was theirs.

With a final glance at the screen, Namjoon’s smile deepened. The game was just beginning. Soon he'll be taking Yoongi to their land.

“You did really well today. Your ‘friends’ enjoyed every second of seeing you like that. They want you closer — more… involved. Don’t worry, I’ll guide you. You’re ours now. Sleep on it and tell me how you feel tomorrow.”

Namjoon hit send and leaned back, a low chuckle escaping him as he imagined Yoongi’s conflicted mind unraveling again.

Yoongi’s phone buzzed softly on the nightstand. He hesitated before picking it up, heart pounding. The message glowed on the screen, simple but heavy with meaning.

You’re ours now.

His cheeks flushed deeply. The words sent a strange thrill mixed with fear through his body. Part of him wanted to run away, hide from the overwhelming attention and control. But another, darker part—buried deep beneath layers of innocence and shame—yearned to belong, to be wanted so badly it hurt.

They want me… all of them. Eventually, the thought twisted inside him, a cold knot tightening in his chest. The weight of Namjoon’s words, the teasing, the challenges—it all pointed toward something Yoongi hadn’t dared to truly face before.

Sex. With all six of them.

His cheeks burned, and tears pricked his eyes as he whispered into the quiet room, voice trembling like fragile glass.
“I don’t know how to back down now, Mallow… I’m so scared. What if I can’t do this? What if I’m just… not enough?”

He hugged the plushie tighter, feeling its familiar softness against his cheek. It was silly, he knew, but Mallow was the only thing that made the fear a little less sharp. His voice cracked as he continued,
“I never even knew what sex was before all this. Now… it’s like I’m trapped, and I don’t know how to say no.”

His small frame shook with quiet sobs, the innocent boy buried deep beneath layers of shame and confusion. Yet somewhere beneath it all, a tiny spark flickered—an aching, desperate hope that maybe, somehow, he could survive this and still be himself.

Yoongi’s breath hitched as he clutched Mallow tighter, the soft fabric pressing against his trembling fingers. His mind spun in a chaotic storm of emotions—fear, shame, confusion, and a flicker of anger he barely understood.

“I’m still a virgin,” he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking in the dark. “I don’t even know how sex is supposed to feel… I’m scared it’s going to hurt. I’m so small… so fragile. How can they expect me to—”

His thoughts broke off as a wave of frustration crashed over him. He glared at the ceiling, fists clenched tightly. “And you, Namjoon… you’re the one who’s made me like this. You pushed me, teased me until I’m desperate, needy… I didn’t even know how to touch myself before I met you. You made me dependent on you, on them.” His voice grew sharper, bitter. “I want to back down. I want to stop before this gets worse.”

Tears welled up, blurring his vision. “But I don’t know how. I’m trapped. My body won’t listen to me. It’s like I’m losing control, and I don’t want to lose myself completely.”

A sob caught in his throat as he buried his face in Mallow’s soft fur, the plushie a silent witness to his turmoil. The boy who had once been so innocent now faced a storm of emotions he wasn’t ready to weather alone—and the path ahead seemed darker and more confusing than ever.

Yoongi curled tighter on his bed, heart pounding with a mix of fear and resolve. He stared down at Mallow, the soft bunny plushie still pressed against his chest, whispering to himself in the quiet room.

“This has to end. I can’t keep going like this.”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely more than a breath as he repeated the thought. The weight of Namjoon’s control, the pack’s teasing, the way his own body betrayed him — it was too much.

When Namjoon came tomorrow, he’d say it clearly. No more games, no more pretending. He’d tell Namjoon he wasn’t someone to be played with, not a toy for the pack to claim.

Despite the trembling nerves and the lingering shame, Yoongi clung to the last shred of his dignity.

I have to be strong. For me.

The decision settled in his chest, heavy but steady. Whatever happened next, he wouldn’t lose himself without a fight.

Yoongi’s chest tightened as the quiet truth settled over him like a cold shadow. His sex drive—something so personal, so intimate—was no longer his own. It was in Namjoon’s hands, controlled and twisted by the man who had slowly taken hold of every part of him.

He hugged Mallow close, biting his lip until it stung. “I’m so stupid,” he muttered bitterly, voice thick with self-disgust. “So naive. So dumb.”

How had he let this happen? How had he handed over something so precious without even realizing it? The realization burned sharper than any humiliation—the key to his own desires, given away like a careless gift.

His fingers trembled as he traced the plush bunny’s soft fur, tears blurring his vision. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

The boy who had once been shy, innocent, and whole now felt fractured—half lost in a world he didn’t understand, caught between fear and a desperate, aching need for control.

Yoongi’s mind raced as he sat alone, the silence pressing down on him. A sudden wave of panic surged through his chest—how was he supposed to handle this? How could he come without Namjoon’s teasing hands, his whispered commands, the control Namjoon held so tightly over his body?

What if I can’t? The thought clawed at him relentlessly, twisting his insides with dread. The desperate, needy way his body responded whenever Namjoon was near—it terrified him. He felt like a puppet, every twitch and pulse dictated by someone else.

But then, just as quickly, a steadier thought rose through the storm of fear.

No. This can’t go on.

He took a shaky breath and squeezed Mallow tighter. If he couldn’t regain control on his own, if his body betrayed him like this again and again, then he would find help. A doctor. A therapist. Someone who could help him untangle the mess Namjoon had made of his mind and body.

But one thing was clear—he was done being Namjoon’s plaything.

“I’ll fix this,” Yoongi whispered to the empty room, voice small but firm. “And then... I’m done.”

With that decision, a faint flicker of strength kindled inside him—fragile, yes, but real.

Yoongi’s hands trembled as he hugged Mallow tighter, the soft fur soaked with the faint traces of tears. His chest felt heavy, weighed down by a desperate ache he couldn’t quite shake. He hated that he was still so needy, so desperate for release—but more than that, he hated how Namjoon had used that desperation to control him.

“No more,” he whispered, voice raw. “If I need… if I have to, I’ll use toys. Or I’ll find someone to help me. But it won’t be Namjoon.”

The thought alone made his throat tighten. The idea of reaching out to anyone else felt terrifying—but it was a step toward reclaiming something Namjoon had taken: his autonomy.

Yoongi’s mind flashed with the possibility of leaving the dorm, the pack, even the college itself. Starting over somewhere new, somewhere far from Namjoon and his friends—people so fucked up they had twisted him into this mess.

He hated that it had come to this. That the boy who had once been so innocent was now cornered by the darkness of others’ desires.

But he’d built the courage, fragile though it was. He would cut Namjoon out, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how much he still craved.

“I have to get away,” he breathed, voice barely audible. “Because they don’t deserve me.”

------

It was the next evening, the sun dipped low behind the campus buildings, casting long shadows across the dorm hallway. Yoongi sat stiffly on the edge of his bed, fingers locked around the hem of his sweatshirt, heart racing in his chest. Every breath felt too loud, too shallow. He had rehearsed the words a dozen times, but now that evening had arrived, they all felt hollow.

The knock at the door made him flinch.

It opened before he could answer.

Namjoon stepped inside, calm as ever, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink. His gaze swept the room before landing on Yoongi, eyes cool and unreadable. “Hey, bunny,” he said casually, as if nothing had changed. “You didn’t text me today.”

Yoongi stood too quickly, his voice cracking. “Don’t—don’t call me that.”

Namjoon paused mid-step, then tilted his head with a faint smirk. “Alright. Yoongi, then. What’s going on?”

The sound of his name in Namjoon’s mouth made Yoongi’s stomach twist. He stepped back, shaking his head. “I told you last night. I meant it. I can’t do this anymore.”

Namjoon’s face remained frustratingly relaxed. He shut the door with a soft click and leaned against it, arms crossed. “Can’t do what, exactly?”

“This thing,” Yoongi gestured vaguely between them, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “You. Your friends. The teasing. The control. Everything.”

Namjoon hummed thoughtfully, as if Yoongi had mentioned something mildly inconvenient, like running out of coffee. “You seemed like you enjoyed it.”

“I was confused!” Yoongi shouted, the force of it surprising even him. His throat tightened as emotion surged to the surface. “I didn’t even know how to touch myself before you. I didn’t know what I was feeling, and you—you used that! You made me think I needed you.”

Namjoon pushed off the door slowly, approaching with that same maddening calm. “And now?”

Yoongi’s hands shook. “Now I can’t even look at myself without feeling ashamed.”

There was silence between them, thick and suffocating. Then, Yoongi’s voice broke again, smaller this time. “I hate that my body wants things I don’t understand. I hate that I’m still… still desperate. And I hate that even now, part of me wishes you’d say something to make it better.”

He sank back down onto the bed, covering his face with both hands. “I’m so stupid.”

Namjoon’s footsteps were soft, deliberate. He didn’t kneel, didn’t reach out. Just stood near enough that Yoongi could feel him.

“You’re not stupid,” Namjoon said evenly. “You’re young. You’re learning. That’s what people like you do.”

“People like me?” Yoongi whispered, voice raw.

Namjoon’s lips curled faintly. “People who want to be seen. Touched. Owned.”

Yoongi choked back a sob. “I’m not yours.”

Namjoon leaned in just slightly, voice low. “Then why are you still wearing the collar I gave you?”

Yoongi froze.

His fingers moved slowly to the base of his neck. The thin strip of soft leather—the one Namjoon had called “just a game,” “just for fun”—still rested there.

He hadn’t even noticed he put it on.

Tears spilled down his cheeks as the weight of it crushed him. He wanted to rip it off, throw it across the room—but his body wouldn’t move. He hated how his shame was tangled with longing, how his fear made space for comfort.

Namjoon, as always, didn’t flinch. “You can take it off whenever you want. Walk out. Transfer schools. Erase me. You have that power.”

Yoongi looked up, eyes glassy and red. “Do I really?”

Namjoon didn’t answer.

He just turned, opened the door with a calm hand, and paused in the doorway.

“You’re not trapped, Yoongi. But you are marked. And no matter how far you run… you’ll remember that.”

Then he was gone, leaving Yoongi alone with the silence, the collar still burning like a brand around his throat.

Yoongi sat frozen on the edge of the bed, the collar still heavy around his neck, when Namjoon reappeared in the doorway moments later. He hadn't fully closed the door before. He never did. Control slipped through cracks, not slams.

Namjoon leaned against the frame, arms folded, watching Yoongi quietly. Then he spoke, tone low—almost casual.

“You know,” he said, “the way you looked in those photos… the way you begged in that video—”

“Stop,” Yoongi said hoarsely, cutting him off.

Namjoon didn’t. “It wasn’t just pretty, Yoongi. It was real. That wasn’t me forcing anything. That was you—opened up, needy, honest. No one had to teach you that. You gave it. Freely.”

Yoongi’s stomach twisted. “I didn’t understand what I was doing.”

“You understood enough to come, untouched,” Namjoon said with quiet certainty. “To pose when I asked. To look at the camera like you wanted to be devoured.”

“That doesn’t mean I—” Yoongi’s voice broke. “I didn’t know what it would feel like after. I didn’t know I’d hate myself.”

Namjoon stepped into the room, slowly. “I’m not here to hurt you, Yoongi. But you can’t rewrite what’s already happened. You made choices. We both did.”

Yoongi looked up, eyes red. “Then let me go.”

Namjoon’s gaze was steady. “I will. But you need to understand—what’s between us doesn’t disappear just because you run. I’ll never use what we made to shame you, but it’s a part of you now. You gave it. And I’ll carry it.”

There was no explicit threat, no raised voice. Just presence. Memory. Gravity.

And Yoongi hated how some part of him still leaned toward that heat, even now.

Yoongi’s fingers trembled as Namjoon handed him the glass, amber liquid shimmering under the soft light.

“Just a little something to help you relax,” Namjoon said smoothly, eyes watching him with calm control.

Yoongi hesitated, eyes flicking nervously to the rim of the glass. “I—I don’t usually drink…” His voice was small, uncertain.

Namjoon smiled, patient and coaxing. “It’s okay. Just trust me, alright?”

The warmth of the drink spread quickly as Yoongi swallowed, bitter and unfamiliar but oddly comforting. He blinked, suddenly aware of how heavy his limbs felt, as if gravity was pulling him deeper into the chair.

Namjoon moved closer, voice soft like a lullaby. “Just breathe. You’re safe.”

A slow heat bloomed behind Yoongi’s eyelids, a gentle wave washing over his senses. The room tilted just slightly, colors blurring at the edges. He swallowed again, throat dry and fluttering.

“Namjoon…” His voice slurred slightly, confusion flickering in his chest. “I feel… weird.”

“Good,” Namjoon said, his fingers brushing Yoongi’s cheek, warm and steady. “Relax into it.”

Yoongi’s breath came slower, heavy like sinking into a warm bath. The tight knot of anxiety that usually lived beneath his ribs loosened, unraveling thread by thread. His ears twitched, catching the low hum of Namjoon’s voice like a tether pulling him closer.

The chair beneath him felt softer, his body melting into the cushions. His hands rested limply in his lap, and the cuff around his wrist felt distant, unimportant.

“Do you trust me?” Namjoon asked quietly, voice a balm.

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Hello everyone! I want to be fully honest with you that some of the earlier chapters of this fic were written with AI assistance. Looking back, I regret that choice, and I wasn’t truly happy with how the final result turned out. At the time, I thought a little help would be fine since English isn’t my first language and this is my first fic, but I’ve come to realize that it does make a difference. Because of that, I ended up feeling really demotivated about continuing.

I can’t say certainly yet, but I may end up rewriting this fic entirely from scratch. Until then, it’ll be on indefinite hiatus. For now, I’m focusing on my other fic, 'It Was Never Just Him', which I’ve written completely on my own and it feels much more genuine to me. Since I can only give my best to one project at a time, I want to do that fic.

I’m so grateful for all the love and support you’ve shown me. I’m truly sorry to disappoint you, but I also promise that when I return to this fic, it will be in a way that feels real and true to me as a writer.

Chapter Text

Hello guys!! I was wondering if anyone wants to make a story inspired by this one, I don't think I'll ever continue it but I'd love to see this idea come to life. Let me know in the comments and I'll definitely check it out. Also I would appreciate it so much if you give me credits while writing it. Thank you for reading this.