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It wasn’t that he let his guard down.
It wasn’t that he’d gotten cocky, or over-confident.
Yoongi wasn’t stupid enough to ever let himself slip down that treacherous slope.
He just made a stupid, careless mistake. When he should have been steadily checking and re-checking his security, consistently adding more and different layers of protection, he’d failed himself. Instead of changing and strengthening his security at every one of his safehouses like he knew he should have, he’d let the couple that had never been compromised or in risk of discovery be, just checking periodically to make sure there were no signs of discovery, no alarms that had been tripped.
Ironically enough, it had been a tripped alarm that sent him here in the first place. A warning coming in from his system in Seoul, letting him know to clear out and lay low, to not attempt any contact with the team for a while.
He’d been herded here, he realizes now, with a metaphorical fire lit under his ass, sheparding him towards the only property of his that was completely secret and fully off-grid. The only place that seemed safe enough.
And really, he should have expected it, he should have known, considering who he’s up against. It’s so blatantly clear now, in hindsight, that he really can’t find it in himself to be even the slightest bit suprised at the sight of a stranger in an elegant suit, sitting primly and waiting for him on the edge of his bed.
He doesn’t have time to curse himself, doesn’t even have time to feel any sort of dread or regret before he’s going limp, his water bottle falling from his now slack hand and spilling onto the carpet a second before his whole body follows its path. Everything moves in slow motion, even sound. He isn’t even conscious to feel the impact as he crumples into a heap, the man’s lethal smile the last thing he sees.
“Awake now, are we?”
The voice is unmistakably masculine, but with a lilting, almost melodious quality to it.
Pretty, Yoongi finds himself thinking dazedly as he blinks away the blanket of fog clouding his head.
But with its recession comes the influx of memories leading up to his blackout, and his head snaps up from the pillow to take in his surroundings.
He’s still in his safehouse, he notes, but that tiny bit of relief is washed away in the next second as he processes the fact that he’s bound. His arms are pulled out and up, each one fastened to the corresponding bedpost by a thick cuff attached to heavy steel chain-links. The material seems to be leather, so it doesn’t cut into his wrist when he tugs, but it’s tight enough that he couldn’t dream of wriggling out of them.
His legs seem to be in the same predicament, ankles bound and held apart, leaving him spread-eagled on the bed.
Yoongi doesn’t bother screaming. There’s no one around for literal miles.
“It’s pretty rude to ignore your guest when they’re speaking to you, you know.”
Yoongi’s gaze finally lands on the man from before, perched on his dresser. Yoongi studies him for a second, his brain still working too slowly. He takes in the expensive suit, minus the blazer now (that’s tossed on the other side of the dresser), the perfect posture. His eyes follow the line of his shoulders, and continue down his arms, coming to a stop where the man’s hands rest between his own slightly spread thighs, a beautiful silver pistol held loosely between them.
He can’t tear his gaze away, and the stranger follows his line of sight.
“Ah, isn’t it beautiful? It’s a Ulysse Nardin, a Royal Blue Tourbillon, to be exact. Was an anniversary gift from my husband.”
Yoongi’s brow furrows, and it takes him a long second to realize that the guy is talking about his watch, a pretty silver and blue thing that Yoongi is sure must cost more than he makes in a year. He fights the urge to scoff. There’s no way the man actually thought Yoongi was staring at his watch, but he plays along.
“Very pretty,” he rasps, then immediately breaks into a coughing fit, throat dry from lack of use.
“Ah, poor baby,” the stranger coos.
He hops down off the dresser and grabs a water bottle from the bedside table, cracking the lid and extending it slightly towards Yoongi in question.
“Want some water?”
And his expression must be clear on his face, because the man dissolves into a bout of laughter, the sound high and a bit squeaky, very much at odds with his appearance.
“Don’t worry,” he assures once he’s calmed down. “This one isn’t drugged. That would be a little counterproductive, wouldn’t it? I only spiked the first four in the fridge, wouldn’t want to waste too many.”
He closes the remaining distance and waits for Yoongi to reluctantly part his lips, then tips some inside, letting him get a few swallows before gripping his chin and wiping at the little bit that had spilled from the corners of Yoongi’s mouth.
“Namjoon isn’t very fond of bottled water to begin with,” he continues. “They have a pretty bad impact on the environment, you know? He’d be livid at me if I wasted too many of them and contributed to the problem.”
Yoongi’s blood runs cold as a realization settles in, confirming his fears. If this man is dropping names so freely, that must mean he doesn’t intend on letting Yoongi out of here alive.
“I’m Seokjin, by the way,” the stranger smiles, as if to support Yoongi’s theory. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
Yoongi laughs then, a manic, harsh sound that almost has him coughing again. Seokjin ignores it, takes a seat on the edge of the bed, close to Yoongi’s side.
“You’ve been something of a thorn in our paw for quite a long time now, handsome. Longer than anyone else has ever managed to antagonize us, by far. You’ve actually caused an unprecedented amount of problems for us, and we expended a ridiculous amount of resources hunting you down... All to absolutely. No. Avail.”
Seokjin shakes his head with an incredulous laugh, shaking his gun at Yoongi in a way that seems almost playfully reproachful.
“Joonie actually ended up having to hunt you down himself! That has never happened before. Not once! But you really left us no other choice. No records of you on file anywhere, no traceable transactions, no clear ties to the precinct or even the national government. You’re practically a ghost. Does anyone you work with even know you exist? Or do you just feed information to them through their own system, letting them think they’ve found it themselves?”
Yoongi doesn’t realize it’s not a hypothetical until Seokjin taps his gun against his ribs.
“One person,” he hurries to answer. “T-there’s just one person who knows about me. And he’s never seen my face, doesn’t know my real name.”
Jin looks at him with a genuinely awed expression, and Yoongi can’t help but feel a little bit flattered, regardless of the circumstances. Or maybe because of the circumstances. This man in front of him is a member of the most advanced and untouchable technological crime syndicate in the whole of Asia, after all. And here he is, praising Yoongi. Sue him if he lets it inflate his ego a bit.
“You’re smart, Min Yoongi.” Seokjin continues.
Then he pauses, purses his lips, and shakes his head sharply, waving his gun as an extension.
“No. No, that’s a gross understatement, don’t you think? You’re something of a genius, aren’t you? Very, very... impressive.”
He nods seriously at his own statement.
“So impressive, in fact, that my Joonie wanted me to give you a present.”
Yoongi expects-
Well.
He doesn’t know what he expects, honestly.
Maybe for Seokjin to lift the gun and put a quick bullet in his head. Maybe that’s what he means by ‘present’. Yoongi has seen the crime scene photos after all. He knows well that the men whose bodies had been left to find weren’t typically given a quick death. If an escape from that end is what Seokjin is offering, he’ll take it as the merciful gift it is.
But Jin just regards him with that same smile as before, trailing the tip of the gun slowly along Yoongi’s inner thigh before pressing it solidly against Yoongi’s soft cock, startling a gasp from him as he uses it to rub Yoongi through his pants.
“He wanted me to make sure you got to come, one last time, before I kill you.”
And Yoongi’s brain short-circuits.
He doesn’t think he blinks at all in the next few minutes, just blankly staring at Seokjin, trying to make sense of what he’s just said.
“He- you- what?” he finally squeaks out, sure his face is red enough to rival the blood pumping to it.
“Cute,” Seokjin murmurs with an exaggerated pout. “Joon is a man who appreciates talent, and doesn’t hesitate to reward it. And you’ve definitely earned a little carnal satisfaction for your efforts.” But then his expression snaps back to serious. There’s a mocking quality to the concern in his voice when he says, “But only if you want it, of course! Wouldn’t want to do anything like that without your total consent, pretty thing.”
His gun is still pressed against Yoongi’s groin, and Yoongi has to do everything in his power to keep from bucking up against it. It’s fucked up, he knows. Here he is, tied to his bed by a member of the organization he’s been systematically dismantling over the past year, with the promise of his looming death being dangled in front of him.
And yet, all he can focus on is his assailant’s pretty lips and the insistent pressure of hard, cold steel between his legs.
But then Seokjin is pulling the gun back, pointing it toward his face, and Yoongi very nearly pisses his pants.
“It’s perfectly fine if you don’t want to,” he says saccharinely. “We can just go ahead and get this over with. It’s the less fun option, but it’s your choice, really.”
Yoongi hears the click of the gun as he cocks it, and he’s gasping “N-no, no! Please, I want it!” before he even really thinks the words.
The smile is back on Seokjin’s face in an instant, and he twirls the gun away from Yoongi before setting it on top of the nightstand.
“Good choice,” he patronizes.
The hands on Yoongi’s hips should be expected, given the exchange they’d just had, but Yoongi still flinches hard, unable to stop a fearful whimper. He doesn’t miss the way Seokjin’s smile turns a little darker at the noise.
“Just gotta get you out of these pants, pretty baby. Not gonna hurt you.”
The ‘yet‘ is strongly implied.
His sweats are tugged down without much ceremony, the jostling only serving to heighten the anxiety bubbling just under the surface of Yoongi’s skin. Seokjin makes an appreciative sound at the smooth, hairless softness of his legs, and then his briefs are following shortly after.
When the man huffs a laugh, Yoongi flinches, already knowing the gist of what’s about to be said. What he hates most is that the feeling in his chest isn’t dread.
“You know,” Seokjin drawls, mirth evident in his tone. “Topping isn’t really my thing. I’ve always been a little bit more of a taker than a giver, all things considered.”
Yoongi’s heart pounds, his anticipation nearly unbearable, and he passes his tongue over his lips nervously as he forces himself to look up at Seokjin. He’s not even looking back. His eyes are trained between Yoongi’s legs, at the small cock already starting to chub up a little under the scrutiny, another mocking little pout on his lips.
Then he takes his gun, and he trails the muzzle along the length of Yoongi’s member. It twitches. Seokjin ignores it except for a tiny quirk of his lips.
“But I’m also not one to please someone else without getting anything out of it,” he continues. “And as... cute as this is-“ He smacks the barrel against it, not hard, but enough that Yoongi jumps at the impact, gasping at the sudden hint of pain. The smile on Seokjin’s pretty mouth is cruel. “I’m afraid a cock this pathetic isn’t really good for much, hm?”
And, ah, there it is. Humiliation and arousal thrum through Yoongi’s veins in a way that’s nothing short of shameful, lighting him on fire from the inside out. It’s something he’s always acknowledged, but never really been able to explore.
His mind is still fuzzy when he hears Seokjin laugh, probably at the flush on Yoongi’s face, and he doesn’t quite process it when the man gets off the bed to shed his own clothes. But then he’s kneeling back on the bed, and he’s got a knife in his hand.
Yoongi’s heart skips a beat, but Seokjin just leans down, bunches Yoongi’s shirt in his fist, and slices through it, letting the fabric fall away to either side, baring Yoongi’s chest.
“I like marking my toys,” is his only explanation. He punctuates it with a cheesy wink that Yoongi would have rolled his eyes at any other day.
But Yoongi doesn’t have the fight in him, doesn’t even consider kicking out when Seokjin stretches back to uncuff Yoongi’s right ankle, slipping his pants off that leg to better position him. He tries to tell himself it’s because there would be no point- his hands are still chained, after all- but that sick part of him doesn’t let him believe it, knows it’s really because he doesn’t want to lose his chance at this. That part of him screams to just be a good boy, to do what he’s told and enjoy his ‘reward.’
The sound of a cap popping recenters his focus, and his eyes lock on Seokjin’s hands as he drizzles thick lubricant over three of his fingers. It’s mesmerizing, the way it makes his elegant digits shimmer, and Yoongi is entranced, watching dazedly as they disappear between his legs. One of them was crooked, he notes belatedly. He wonders briefly if the drugs from before may have any sort of lingering effect, or if he’s just sinking into some kind of submissive headspace. But his train of thought is shattered when Seokjin suddenly, and none-to-gently presses two fingers deep inside him.
Yoongi squeals, a high-pitched “no, no, wait!“ that he would never willingly admit to making, as his back arches violently from the bed, restraints pulling taught.
The intensity of his reaction has Seokjin pausing knuckle-deep, eyebrows raised as he appraises him.
“You want to stop already?” he muses, and Yoongi almost panics at the thought, despite the pain shooting up his spine.
“No,” he whimpers through gritted teeth. “Don’t- don’t wanna s-stop, just, please-“
Seokjin tsks.
“Are you trying to ask me to be gentle, Yoongi?”
For the first time, there’s a bit of cruelty in his voice.
“Because, as much as you’ve managed to impress my husband, I would hope you don’t actually believe you’re in any position to be calling any shots. You’ll get your orgasm, baby, but it’ll be on my terms. Understand?”
He leans down over him, his breath warm on Yoongi’s lips, and pulls his fingers halfway out, only to jab them back in harshly. Yoongi yelps at the motion, and then again when Seokjin nips hard at his lips.
“All you should worry about is taking what I give you like the good little bitch you are, hm?”
The words are molten lava in Yoongi’s bloodstream, and he has to fight back the urge to moan, nodding frantically instead.
Seokjin honestly doesn’t look too pleased at the response, and Yoongi panics for a second, wondering if he was expected to give a coherent verbal answer, if he somehow made a mistake. But then Seokjin is pressing a third finger inside him, and Yoongi has to bite into his lip to keep from crying at the burn. He hadn’t even had time to adjust to the first two, and now he’s being stretched even further.
Surprisingly, Seokjin stills his hand once he’s knuckle-deep again, giving Yoongi a long moment to even his breathing. And even then, he simply rotates his fingers in small circular movements for a while afterward, until Yoongi starts to relax a little, the pain lessening just a bit.
Only then does Seokjin start to pump them inside him, spreading them incrementally wider with every few thrusts. Yoongi can’t seem to adjust, there’s no rhythm or pattern to the motions, and it has tears stinging at the back of his eyes.
It doesn’t feel good, not really, but it doesn’t hurt as much now. It’s just... fuck, it’s just so intense, and he can’t help the whines and noises spilling like air from his lips.
“So fucking tight,” Seokjin murmurs, brow furrowed, when he pushes in deep again.
Yoongi isn’t even sure if he’s meant to hear it, not until Seokjin is pulling his fingers out of him too quickly, fixing him with a heavy-lidded stare as he runs his tongue over his fat bottom lip. There’s that pop again, followed by a slick, rhythmic sound. By the movement of Seokjin’s shoulder, Yoongi can infer that he’s slicking up his own cock, but he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from Seokjin’s own.
“What’s a gorgeous little twink like you doing so tight?” he teases. “You must work so much you never get any time to play. When’s the last time you had a nice hard fuck, beautiful?”
And god, fuck. Yoongi hates it, hates the way the nonchalant words of praise have him wanting to keen, wanting to be good, to show off, anything to prompt more of them.
“I asked you a question.”
The clipped tone has Yoongi’s eyes widening, his brain blanking for a second before he remembers what he was asked. His whole face and chest heat up, and he knows without looking down that the blush is certainly a visible one.
“I-,” he breaks off, tries to look away.
But Seokjin’s hand releases his thigh to catch his chin in a firm grip, keeping his eyes on him. Yoongi fights the urge to childishly close them, sure that would warrant some kind of punishment. He takes a breath, starts over.
“I- I haven’t- I’ve never-“
“Holy shit.” Seokjin’s laugh isn’t cruel this time, isn’t mocking. It’s almost... awed. “You’re a fucking virgin?”
Yoongi doesn’t answer, but that in itself is a confirmation. Seokjin lets him tear his face from his grip without a fight, gone still for a second from the shock of the revelation. He laughs again, runs his hand over his face, and looks off somewhere to the side.
“A fucking virgin,” he says, a little louder than necessary, words directed at Yoongi’s bookcase. “This is too good.”
Yoongi furrows his brow in confusion, follows Seokjin’s gaze, but he can’t see anything amiss. It doesn’t matter though, because Seokjin is facing him again, the look in his eyes somehow darker, hungrier than it had been before.
His shoulder moves again, and Yoongi lets his gaze drop this time, following the lean, sinewy line of the man’s naked body, fixating on the tight circle of his fingers where they wrap around a generous, girthy cock, languidly stroking.
“How come you didn’t just say so baby?” Seokjin purrs.
He grasps the back of Yoongi’s thigh again, pushing it up, up, until his knee is pressing into his chest, exposing his slick hole to Seokjin’s starving eyes.
And Yoongi considers lying. Considers saying he just didn’t think it mattered. That’s partially true, admittedly. But when Seokjin presses the head of his cock against Yoongi’s rim, meeting his stare again, the truth tumbles out unfiltered.
“D-didn’t want you to fuck me like a virgin,” he blurts. “Didn’t want- didn’t want you to hold back.”
Surprise flickers in Seokjin’s expression, and then a lethal smirk steals over his lips, dangerous and dark.
“Oh, sweetie,” he replies with a mean little chuckle. “You never had anything to worry about there.”
When he pushes in, he proves it.
Yoongi isn’t stretched enough, and it hurts. God, it hurts so much, feels like he’s being torn apart, his body being molded around Seokjin’s thick cock. The pain in itself has a sick, sick satisfaction building in him, coiling hot in his stomach, and the long, high-pitched noise punched from his lungs only serves to humiliate him more.
It feels like forever before Seokjin is settling deep inside him with a groan, hips flush against Yoongi’s ass and the back of his thigh. The stretch in his legs is almost enough to serve as a distraction, one still bound, pulled straight against the mattress while the other is crumpled almost flat against his chest. He whines pathetically, trying to shift, to relieve some of the discomfort in any way possible, but it just serves to have Seokjin pressing harder down into him, holding him still. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, and lets Yoongi feel him, hard and unmoving, settled in his guts. It doesn’t take long for Yoongi to start tugging on his restraints, tears threatening to spill over.
“Please!” he gasps. “Please, fuck, please move-“
Seokjin pulls back before he manages to finish his begging, retreating until only his wide head is still inside. Then he plunges back in with a brutal snap of his hips, barely giving him a second to breathe before he does it again.
“So fucking tight,” he hisses again, punctuated with another thrust. “Such a waste, leaving this perfect little hole unused for so long.”
Yoongi barely hears the words though, because Seokjin shifts his hold on his leg, lifting his body just a couple more centimeters off the bed, and when he drives in again it sets Yoongi’s whole body on fire.
“F-fuck, please!” he wails, and he doesn’t know if he’s begging for Seokjin to stop or keep hitting that spot. But it doesn’t matter, Seokjin just squeezes his thigh harder, fingers digging in with a purpose, and fuck, Yoongi’s sure that would have the prettiest bruises blooming in a couple days if he wasn’t going to die tonight.
Then Seokjin lets go of his leg and lets both hands fall to Yoongi’s waist, clutching it tightly as he delivers several quick, mean thrusts right into his prostate. Yoongi feels it throb under the impact, nearly more pain than pleasure, and it has his tears finally spilling over, quickly soaking his cheeks.
“There you go baby,” Seokjin coos, keeping up his rhythm. “So pretty when you cry.”
His words, paired with the relentless, brutal assault of his cock have Yoongi close to hysterical, thrashing as much as he can to escape the sensation.
He feels teeth close over his chest before he even notices Seokjin’s leaned down. He’s got his mouth covering one of Yoongi’s nipples, the soft swell of his pec caught between his jaws as he bares down. He lets up when Yoongi sobs, looking up at him as he laves his tongue obscenely over the whole area before latching onto the pink peak, sucking as he rolls it between his teeth. He bites down one more time, right on the bud, and then he’s turning to give the same torturous attention to the other breast.
Yoongi’s going insane. He’d beg, if he could still form words, if he even knew what to beg for. But the mouth on his chest, the stretch of his position, the insistent, rough grinding inside of him reduces him to a stupid mess, crying and whining and moaning through it all.
Despite the pain, he’s hard and leaking, his own pathetic little dick throbbing and smacking wetly against his lower belly.
Seokjin wraps his hand around it and strokes, the slide easy but too tight, too rough, and keeps biting and sucking a plethora of colorful marks over every inch of Yoongi’s chest he can reach, moving up to give his neck the same attention once he’s satisfied.
It’s all so much, too much, and Yoongi’s twitching in over-sensitivity well before he comes with drawn-out whimper, painting his chest in ropes of translucent white.
Seokjin doesn’t stop, keeps pistoling his hips against him, driving into him until it hurts. But the pain is a high on its own, and Yoongi would thrust back into it if he could. Seokjin never even loses his rhythm, keeps it up until the end, the only indication that he’s about to come being the increased speed of his strokes, the way he lets his head fall back, eyes slipping closed as he breathes out profanities.
Yoongi’s mesmerized by the arch of his neck, the sweat dripping down it, and it takes him off guard when Seokjin pushes in one last time, hands clenching in a death grip around Yoongi’s waist. His fingers nearly touch, and Yoongi feels so small, tiny and used- just like a toy, just like Seokjin had said when they started- as he feels hot liquid spurt inside him. He imagines it continuing, filling him up, and has to bite back the whine of disappointment when it stops, Seokjin starting to soften inside him.
Yoongi expects him to reach for the gun any second now, to point it at him and pull the trigger. But he makes no move to.
He stays there for a moment, just breathing deep, even after he’s fully soft, his own come beginning to leak out around him. His eyes fixate on Yoongi’s stomach, and then he reaches out a hand, fingers trailing through the mess, rubbing it in.
Yoongi doesn’t even have it in him to feel disgusted, just twitches under the touch. Everything is still so sensitive it hurts.
When he pulls out, it’s too fast, and Yoongi can’t help the noise of discontent. He feels so empty. It feels wrong. He hates how much he wants something back inside him, plugging him up.
It’s almost like Seokjin knows. He smirks, swiping his fingers over Yoongi’s sore, puffy hole, collecting the mess. Yoongi keens when he presses them into him, aiming straight for his prostate and massaging his come into the gland. Like he’s marking him there, too. As if he hadn’t already.
He slides them out again with a laugh, wiping his hand on Yoongi’s sheets.
“Don’t tell Joonie,” he grins conspiratorially. “But that was probably the best fuck I’ve had in months.”
As if on cue, a phone rings. It’s some vaguely familiar drama ost, and Yoongi's brow pinches in confusion. But Seokjin smiles, and it’s beautiful, the first real one Yoongi’s seen. He clambers off of Yoongi and rummages through his pile of clothes, coming back up with his phone in hand. He answers it without hesitation, positively beaming.
“Joonie,” he sings. “How’re you doing baby?”
There’s a laugh on the other end of the line, and then a deep, calm voice speaks, the timber of it making Yoongi’s sticky, spent cock twitch against his thigh.
“Don’t act like you didn’t just insult my stroke game.”
Yoongi’s brain stops working.
“I would never!” Seokjin is dramatically defending. “You just never let me top!”
“As if you ever want to!” comes the harried reply. “You’re a certified pillow princess, cut the crap.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Seokjin giggles. Then his voice drops, playful melting into sultry. “Did you enjoy the show?”
He turns to face Yoongi as he says it, meeting his eyes close, and a sneaking suspicion creeps up Yoongi’s spine.
“Yoongi’s very pretty isn’t he? And such a good boy, too. Didn’t try to fight me once.”
The blood drains from Yoongi’s face and his eyes snap over to the bookcase, where Seokjin had looked earlier. He’d thought it was just him talking to himself, but-
“So smart, too,” Seokjin continues.
He crosses the room, phone still in hand, and reaches back between two novels. When he pulls his hand back, there’s a small black device in it, a tiny camcorder that had been hidden in the shadow of the shelves and books.
“Smile for the camera baby,” Seokjin grins.
Yoongi doesn’t, but he doesn’t seem to care. He flips a switch and then tosses it down on the end of the mattress.
“Want to meet your biggest fan?”
It takes a solid minute for Yoongi to realize that he’s talking to him still, and he honestly has no idea what the other man could mean by his question. But Seokjin is already plopping between Yoongi’s legs again, sprawling out on top of him. He settles once he has his head comfortably on Yoongi’s chest, and then he brings the phone up, switches the call to video-
And Yoongi stops breathing.
The man sitting on the other side of the screen is quite possibly one of the most beautiful people Yoongi has ever had the privelage of seeing in his 26 years of life.
Light, sandy brown hair is swept back and to the side, exposing strong brows and sharp, almond-shaped eyes. They’re such a dark shade of brown that they almost seem black, and currently a little crinkled at the edges as a result of the man’s easy smile. His lips are plump and lush in a way entirely different from Seokjin’s, and deep dimples mark each of his golden cheeks, his skin a natural dark honey color that Yoongi can’t help but briefly imagine against his own pale body, the contrast striking.
“Even more beautiful up close,” the god proclaims. “An exemplary face to match an exemplary mind. How... fitting. Yet pleasantly unexpected.”
Yoongi just blinks dumbly, at a complete loss. He’s collected enough to realize that this man is Namjoon, Seokjin’s husband, and apparently the man who had managed to hunt him down. Which, judging by the impression Seokjin had given him, means-
“You’re Abraxas.”
Namjoons smile widens, and he sits back in his chair. It lets Yoongi see that he’s in a study of some sort, a wall of books behind him. He’s not wearing a suit and tie as Seokjin had been, but he’s got on a white button-up that seems to be only half-way fastened.
Yoongi has to tear his eyes away from the man’s exposed collarbone, has to force himself to focus on the words dripping from his lips like nectar instead.
“-prefer you to call me Namjoon, instead,” he’s saying. “Or even Joon if you’re comfortable. Abraxas is a name for those to whom I don’t really exist. Abraxas isn’t a single man, it’s many. But foremost, Abraxas is a threat and symbol. You’ve met me, in a manner of speaking. I exist in your world now, and you’ll come to know me. So, to you, I’m Kim Namjoon.”
And, as beautiful and compelling as the small speech was, there was one particular part that branded itself into Yoongi’s brain.
“I’ll... I’ll ‘come to know you’? What does that- what do you mean? I mean-”
He’s distracted momentarily by the feeling of lips and tongue against his chest- Seokjin’s become bored with the conversation, it seems.
“Aren’t you going to kill me?”
Namjoon blinks.
And then he laughs.
Seokjin snorts from where he’s at on Yoongi’s chest, then flips over to the side, his cackling unrestrained.
Yoongi just waits, feeling very much like he’s missed something important.
It takes a while for them to calm down, Joon being the first to collect himself.
“Oh, god,” he manages finally. “I can’t believe we forgot to clear that up.”
“You’re not going to die, Yoongi,” Jin adds, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. But then he sobers up a little.
“At least, not if you cooperate.”
But he’s laughing again before Yoongi can even begin to take him seriously, and now, with the threat of imminent death somewhat relieved, Yoongi is admittedly starting to get a little irritated. He opens his mouth to snap out something, anything that may get him some answers, but Namjoon is already speaking again.
“You’re going to work with me now,” he states confidently, without an ounce of doubt in his tone. “Instead of against me. I’ve been studying how you operate, Yoongi. I’d be a very stupid man to let you walk away from me. Even moreso now that we’ve seen how... useful, you can be in other aspects.”
Yoongi’s eyes widen at the suggestive tone of his voice, but he’s ready to write it off as his imagination. Only Namjoon doesn’t let him.
“Running a syndicate like ours is a very stressful job, you see. And between that beautiful brain of yours, and that magnificent body- Well, I’m convinced that you’ll prove to be a uniquely helpful asset in... alleviating... that stress.”
The excitement bubbling under his skin can’t be healthy, Yoongi knows. It can’t be sane, that he’s not fighting this. That he doesn’t even mind the idea of what Namjoon is alluding to.
“And what if I say no?”
He’s not going to say no. The words taste terrible on his tongue.
Seokjin makes a thoughtful noise.
“Well, we could always help you get situated in a different career, if you’d like.”
Namjoon grins on the screen, and Yoongi notices for the first time that there’s something primal about it. A sharp edge hidden under the beauty of it.
“Of course,” he agrees. “We’ve already got a nice little application video for your résumé.”
The threat is thinly veiled, but it’s a bluff. Yoongi knows enough about the syndicate to know the things they have their hands in. Human trafficking and prostitution aren’t among them.
And yet, when Seokjin runs his hand down his chest, stops to fondle Yoongi’s soft cock, and whispers “so what’ll it be?“, Yoongi finds himself agreeing without a second thought.
It isn’t until much later, when he’s in a car headed to somewhere near Ilsan, that he realizes: Namjoon had to have known Yoongi would see the threat as the bluff it was. And yet he was willing to give Yoongi that last push, willing to give him something he could cling to, an ultimatum that gave Yoongi a chance to defend his choice to himself, an excuse to say “I had no choice.”
It has a feeling close to affection pulsing in his chest, and Yoongi lets a smile curl his lips. He can’t wait to meet the man behind the god.