Life is unpredictable. Sometimes it's spilled coffee, missed buses and lost opportunities. Other times it's delightful – five dollars waiting for you in the pocket of a winter coat or your office closing early for the day. This one is pretty good too. Not entirely unpredictable, what with his teasing and his talk of bending you over any readily available surface. You've been hoping for it. It just turned out better than you expected.
Your jeans are around your ankles. Your panties – thank god they’re the cute, red ones – are stretched over your ass as you bend over the kitchen counter. The cold tile chills your arms. Hissing at the unpleasant sensation, you brace yourself for what's coming. You glance over your shoulder and suppress a shiver. This isn't a game for him, you realize. Yoongi looks pissed.
"Want to take it back?" With his hands on his hips, white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. he’s not fucking around.
The words you plan to fire back at him lodge in your throat. You shake your head, quick and awkward.
"Sweetheart, you've not going to be able to move tomorrow without thinking about me."
"So you keep saying." You mutter, but apparently not softly enough.
He huffs quietly. "You asked for it."
But he doesn't sound disappointed in the outcome.
Walking up the steps to Yoongi's apartment building, you try to calm your nerves. It's not as intimidating as you thought it might be. There's no doorman. (What the hell were you thinking, a doorman?) It's just that sometimes he doesn't seem real. Sometimes he seems like a dream you made up because you were too lonely or too tired or too sad. If you conjured him, then maybe the spell can be reversed, maybe he will leave as quickly as he appeared.
Shaking your head, you enter his code into the keypad with numbers faded from use. Yoongi's muffled voice comes through the ancient speaker. He sounds like he's stranded on the moon, radioing for help. Or maybe that's you.
Your thoughts are muddled. Christmas with your family, a ride back to school with your brother, and suddenly arriving at Yoongi's apartment for the first time, it feels like a carnival ride, turning this way and that, twisting up and down, then finally coming to a stop and depositing you here.
The door buzzes, and you trudge up to his third floor, one-bedroom apartment.
Are you a graduate student with a sorta-serious fling with Min Yoongi who hasn't fucked you yet? Or, are you someone's daughter that can't wash the dishes correctly or wear the right clothes, but you always know when to hide the whiskey from your uncle and how to make your niece laugh?
You're all of those things and none of them.
You didn't change your clothes, still wearing a warm, oversized sweater and jeans and the heavy coat that you stole from your mother's closet. What is the dress code for this? You do much better with rules, but it's too late now.
Whatever you might be when you're at your parent's house eating your mother's cooking or in your brother's car fighting over music, here you’re just yourself. Whoever you are, Yoongi's interested in you or at least not bored yet.
You knock on his door.
There are a lot of good looks on Min Yoongi. A black leather jacket, a soft plaid flannel, or an oversized hoodie you still haven't figured out how to steal from him, but you've never seen him like this. white shirtsleeves rolled up, apron on, and . . .
"Do you wear glasses?"
"Uh, sometimes." He steps back to let you into his apartment.
You just stand there, taking in the sight of Min Yoongi in his glasses, wire frames on the bottom and thicker on the top. He cocks his head at you, smiling, like he has a secret.
You bite your lip so as not to say anything ridiculous or force him against the door until his glasses are fogged.
"So you like the glasses?" Yoongi doesn't bother to keep the laughter out of his voice.
"You can't just spring this on me . . . unawares." You follow him into his apartment where more surprises await.
The main room isn't large, but it is a little cluttered, a little over full. Nothing like what you expected. You expected white and aesthetic and incredibly expensive mid-century modern furniture, all with a kind of refine, airy emptiness.
Instead, Yoongi’s apartment is comfortable. The leather chair is so inviting you want to wake up in it. A deep green velvet couch sits low to the ground. It's a bit out of place, like a neighbor left it when he moved out. One wall is taken up with albums, lined on shelves. There is an order here, some kind of specific place for each and every one, you're sure. This is as carefully cataloged as the library where you work, or the few bookshelves you have in your small apartment. A hideously colored rug rests on the floor. It doesn't match anything in the apartment. Where in the hell did he find it? Dragging your eyes away from its atrociousness you scan the rest of the room. There's an efficiency kitchen hugging one corner with small kitchen island. A narrow hallway must lead back to his bedroom.
The apartment is well cared for, and you wonder what it means that he invited you here, tonight, the day after Christmas. What would a holiday be like with him? You walk into the kitchen, put your bag of bottles on the counter with a clang, and decide to ignore slash shut down any internal musings for the night. You don't need those kinds of thoughts, thoughts about the future, thoughts about relationships and Min Yoongi, thoughts about love. Your heart knocks on the window outside where you've left her. She's smoking a cigarette, looking smug. She rolls her eyes and exhales, disappearing in a puff of smoke. You feel relieved. Your heart getting in the middle of this is the last thing you need, but she’ll be back, you're sure.
"The glasses are there." Yoongi gestures behind him, so you make yourself at home. Just like the rest of the apartment, the cupboards are neat and well-organized. It's as is if he wants to hide it, the way his things are just so and just as he likes.
You grab the glasses and give each one a large pour of wine. Yoongi doesn't mind. Maybe he needs a drink after being home.
"Cheers," Yoongi says, and it makes you smile.
You pull up a stool and sit, watching him tend to the meat grilling on the stove. He looks at ease.
"You're quiet tonight," he says.
"I'm not the only one."
There's a story there, you think. A story he doesn't want to tell, too new or too much or too not for you, you don't know.
You want to ask so many questions-- about his parents, about their café, but instead he asks about your family's home. You tell him stories of your drunk uncle and the baby that spit up on you. You tell him funny stories to make him laugh, all the ones you keep archived for when you need them. The time you threw up on the Christmas nativity. The time you got caught drinking in the bathroom at prom. It works. Slowly whatever tension inhabits him unwinds. He may have offered to make dinner because you’re pathetic at keeping food in your fridge, but maybe he needed this too. It's nice to fill the quiet with parts of you he doesn't know about. He laughs at the time when you snuck out of your house at midnight in middle school, but all you did was roller skate in the driveway because you had nowhere to go, living so far out in the country as you did.
Yoongi piles food high on your plate. He was right. He is a good cook. Apparently, there isn't anything he's bad at, but you really want to find something, as unfair as that is. The bottle of wine gets lower along with the candles he lit on the little counter. The two of you sit side by side as if seated the world's smallest diner. You've eaten with him before – restaurants and take out and walking to work – but this is different. Three glasses of wine, and you're starting to feel blurred and pleasantly lost, not quite following his rant, something to do with a piece he's working on, him and Namjoon disagreeing about something.
"What does Hoseok think?" You interrupt.
"Namjoon always – what?"
"What does Hoseok think?"
"I don't . . . know." He scrutinizes you, shifting in his chair, empty plate pushed aside. "Why do you ask?"
"You always talk about what he thinks, I mean, not always, but sometimes, like his opinion matters to you." You shrug. "It might help."
Yoongi's face breaks into a smile. You want to save it for a bad day.
"How did you figure this out?"
"I'm really smart if you haven't noticed."
Yoongi laughs, throwing his head back.
"I have." He finishes his glass of wine. "What is it you’re working on?"
You avoid his gaze. "I’m not working on anything."
"I’ve seen you. You’re writing something and isn't your thesis."
You sit straighter, food forgotten. "No, I’m not."
Yoongi rolls his eyes. He goes to pour more wine but the bottle is empty. He sets it down firmly. "You are."
Your heart races. You're so used to not being seen that it surprises you when it happens. What has he read? Is he going to laugh? No, he wouldn't do that, you don't think. Would he?
"If it matters to you, it's something." He takes your plates from the counter, setting them in the sink, pushing up his sleeves. He starts washing the dishes, giving you time to answer.
"It isn't a real thing."
You observe his scowl in the small window above the sink. It's dark outside so his reflection is hazy, an otherworldly Yoongi disapproving of you.
"If it's yours, it's a real thing."
You stand from the stool, moving back from the counter. You straighten your sweater, though there's no need. Yoongi tries to catch your eye in the reflection but you avoid him. In this you are skilled.
"Why won't you tell me?" He turns around to face you. "Y/n?"
Yoongi picks up a towel from the counter. He carefully dries his hands, meticulous and thorough, not meeting your gaze. The silence stretches.
"I don't want talk about it." You wring your hands. "Because I'm terrible at it."
"Why do you talk like that?" He walks over and stands in front of you "Y/n."
It comes out like a plea, and you can't bear this feeling of him looking at you, really looking at you as if you're something to be pitied. Hand coming up to your face, gentle, always so gentle. He's an artist even if he works in sounds, something you can't see, can't understand really, but still he appreciates that touch has meaning, as much as sculptor or a painter would. He doesn't waste touches, Yoongi. He gives them out sparingly but he's not stingy. He's cradling your face in his hands now. You wanted banter and fun tonight, not for Min Yoongi to look at you like you've disappointed him. That's not what this is supposed to be.
You roll your eyes, pretending you can’t feel the heavy weight of this moment, the air tightening around you, suffocating you. "It’s stupid."
Yoongi moves back as if you pushed him. "Oh no, that's not what we're gonna do."
You want anything other than to believe that you've let him down. He gazes at you, unblinking, as if asking do you really want this.
"Whatever, it doesn’t matter." You say quietly, feeling the familiarity of these thoughts, comfortable even in their toxicity.
Yoongi takes a breath. Whatever is going through his mind, he's going to help, you think. You can't fathom exactly how, but he's going to do something to help you move from this moment to the next one. He's going to make sure you aren't trapped here, confidence gone, unable to tell him the simplest of facts about yourself.
You meet his eye. "I’m not any good."
He unties his apron, fingers moving quick. "I don't like it when you talk about yourself that way."
"Oh," you exhale. After everything, that's what gets him? That's what he doesn't like?
He drops the apron on the counter and flexes his fingers. What in the hell is he getting ready for?
"You remember what to say when you want me to stop?"
You lick your lips at his words. Your breathing picks up, along with the rise and fall of your chest. With each moment that passes, you wind tight and he calms. He holds steady, as impassive as a statue.
You nod. You've gone over it all, red for stop, green for keep going. He wanted to talk about it last week, during one of those conversations where he tells you something you could’ve guessed, but he needed to say the words out loud anyway. A ritual you're sure he's conducted with others, but this time it's with you. It feels good to be worthy of such consideration.
"Yes, I remember."
This isn't new to you, but he's not like the others. You already know that, even though the two of you have done so little, really, when it comes down to it.
Without a word, he reaches for your waist. He grips softly, thumbs moving over your skin, pushing up your sweater, taking his time. You resist the urge to suck in your tummy. He watches your face, rather than his hands, as he unbuttons your jeans and unzips the zipper. There's a faint smile on his lips, and you can't quite believe it, to have him unwrap you like this. You close your eyes.
"Look at me."
Your eyes flash open, embarrassed at the way you comply so quickly. The apartment isn't warm, but you feel a flush on your cheeks. Your body exists in a state of wanting, a state of needing him. You'd do anything he asked at the moment, it's a good thing he is trustworthy. You let yourself smile. Whatever happens, he's going to take this shame away, this idea that you aren't good enough for what you want, for him.
Yoongi's hands leave your waist as quickly as they arrived. He reaches up to run a finger over your bottom lip. "Don't smile, you aren't going to like your punishment."
"I can take it," you say in a breath. You're going to try, anyway.
"We'll see." Yoongi takes you by the shoulder and turns you around. He pushes you gently down against the counter. You take a deep breath and try to steady your nerves. Things have moved so slowly between the two of you, this moment is the most exposed you've felt. The restaurant was so rushed, so fast, that you don't quite remember it. This isn't kisses in doorways or late-night phone calls, like a teenager still living at home worrying about getting caught. There's not a screen between you or a chance of being interrupted, there's just Min Yoongi standing behind you making your heart race. You lick your chapped lips.
Yoongi pushes your jeans roughly to your ankles. When he makes sure you don't want to take it back, don't want to stop whatever this is, you hear him take a deep breath. The music you haven't really noticed all night, gives a low pulsing rhythm that lulls you into a kind of hypnotic state.
Then you are just sort of waiting, ass out. What the hell—
You sneak a glance back at him. He's biting his bottom lip and you hope it's out of admiration and not confusion. What in the fuck? He's just observing you, not doing anything, standing there like he could wait all night if he wanted. You stifle a moan. He hasn't even done anything, not really, already your panties are damp. He's the worst tease, you should have known, is he not – you rub your thighs together, needing something, anything, even a poor substitute for him. Oh god, what if his punishment is not to touch you at all? That would be unbearable.
Yoongi runs one finger over the edge of your panties, moving so slowly and inexorably over your skin, he leaves a trail of shivers in his wake. You exhale, your whole body readying itself for what comes next. Surely, this is it. He dips below the hem, pushing them down to expose your ass. Your legs tremble, and his hand abandons your skin. You try your best to stay still, to hold yourself composed for him. Then he’s back, this time pushing up your panties, the fabric tightening pleasurably around your slit. There’s a decided disinterest, and it somehow makes everything feel better. Now, he’s grabs your ass, fingers digging into your flesh, insistent and possessive.
"Please," you moan.
"What do you want?" he asks idly, with no interest in the answer.
"Anything," you say.
Abruptly, his hands stop, moving away.
"Not that," you whisper. You’re fairly certain he’s laughing at you, but it’s a shared joke, not a cruel interjection. You smile.
His hands return, and you stifle a moan as he runs his fingers over your clothed slit, back and forth. Nothing extraordinary, just a repetitive hand motion that has you slowly unraveling under him. It’s incredibly perfect and utterly terrible that he is such a tease. It feels like that first night, his hands under the table, as your sex gets slicker and your heart speeds up. He nudges aside your panties to feel your messy release.
"Kitten," Yoongi drawls, "I haven't even done anything yet."
"I'm aware," you grit out, turning your head, but not bold enough to meet his eyes. All the frustration from the last few minutes poured into those words.
"No, pet," Yoongi says, as his hand leaves the apex of your thighs and returns to, kneading the flesh of your ass. "That's not how this works."
You purse your lips so as to prevent the many pathetic pleadings from pouring out. You aren't that bad yet, but you will be soon. You push back into his ministrations.
Abruptly, he removes his hands. "Pull them down," he commands.
Awkwardly, you reach back, wiggling out of your panties, letting them fall past your knees. You focus on the counter in front of you, a cold, white tile, instead of the pleasurable humiliation moving through your limbs, already making you feel wonderfully fuzzy. You take a steadying breath. Something in the air has changed, become thick, and any thoughts of playful banter are gone. The only thing left is concerted, heartfelt begging.
Some desperate plea is on your lips when—
"Oh god," you exhale when the first slap falls on your ass. It's a sharp, bright pain that dulls quickly. His hands aren't huge but he's strong . . . fuck, you mutter when the next one comes down.
The third is harsher, causing your hips to slam into the counter where you had been able hold yourself steady before, but that's not going to happen anytime soon. He’s good, you realize through the delightful haze, at regulating the way it’s felt. There’s a halt before the pain spreads, bold and sparking through your ass.
You right yourself, up on your arms once again, your breath coming in gasps. "You want me to count?" you say, trying to sound as bored as possible, but it comes out panting and forced. You might have made a huge mistake.
The sound of his laughter makes it easy to picture the way his head is likely thrown back. You aren't foolish enough to try to sneak a look. Maybe this won't be so bad, maybe you'll make it just fine.
"There's going to be too many to count, pet."
"Oh," you say. Now there's a dull, steady ache moving through your body. No longer primed for the next slap, you're starting to figure out just how much it hurts.
"Yeah, oh." Yoongi mimics. Like an asshole, honestly, but you don't mind. Already you don't remember where started this and where it will end. Everything is centered into this one moment, and you aren't worried anymore.
It's quiet, just the sound of the music in the apartment. As if giving you time to regret your actions, which you are - yikes - he doesn't fill the space with anything. You lose yourself in the beat of the pulsing music.
When he begins again, his strike is lighter, but it's so much worse. Your skin sensitized now and burning bright, nothing stops the multitudes of pain layered over your skin. It unfurls something else within you too. You've liked this before, but with him it's better because you don't have to worry if he's going to play by the rules. You don't have to assess his capacity for kindness because he's already shown it to you. With other partners a part of you had to remain behind, hovering just above you like an out of body apparition to make sure you aren’t betrayed. Unbidden, you sob at the realization that he's not going to do that to you, you can just exist here without fear.
It's a heavenly feeling, and it just keeps going. The feeling of your labored breathing against the cold tile, the harsh smack of his hand keeps you focused. It's all a moment that you don't have to leave, don't have to run away from. You feel your slick pussy, your throbbing clit and an inexorable want to take whatever he gives you.
Through the haze of light slaps and gentle spankings on your thighs even, it finally comes to you. There is something off with the rhythm, something in addition to the growing, glowing pain where all your life has become centered. It's slightly off, not exactly --
Another hard slap, this time pushing you into the counter. You groan at the thought of marks on your skin and his hands putting them there.
What doesn't make sense though? What's off?
Oh fucking goddamn fuck.
Yoongi's spanking you off beat to the low music. Your whole life is circling around this one fact, the entirety of your experience wrapped up in this aggravating lack of rhythm, like the precipice of an immense cliff and the last thing you want to do is look down, but you can stop yourself from focusing on it. It is literally the most infuriating thing you have ever experienced. Christ, he's such an asshole.
You grip the edge of the counter. "This has to hurt you, oh fuccckkkk, more than it hurts me."
He's giving you more breaks now, more pauses and it is almost worse, because you can't anticip-
His hand rains down on your ass. "Trust me, it doesn't."
He pauses though. You lower your forehead to the cool counter. You don't realize there are tears on your cheeks until you lay your head on the tile. Primed for the next slap, you flinch when he runs a gentle finger over you aching sex. There's nowhere to hide, and you don't want to for the first time in a long time.
* * *
Yoongi can't believe how much he likes the dull red hue of your ass, the way you can't catch your breath and the way you can frankly fucking take it. He smiles at the thought of you hating his little trick with the music. He’s pretty proud of that one.
You don't exactly hate it though, despite your protestations, the way your pussy is dripping for him. Yoongi wants nothing more than to keep you bent over this counter and fuck you until you're screaming his name. He wants nothing more than for everyone to learn, even his annoying neighbors, that you’re his, that your body is just for him.
"Babe," he whispers, rubbing your slick pussy, avoiding your clit knowing that it's too much. You push back into his hand, desperate to be filled. "My perfect, little sl—"
Oh shit. He catches himself just in time, covering his words by pushing his fingers into your slick folds. That was close, and he hopes you didn't hear him. You moan, and rut back onto his hand, your tight wet heat taking him in. Christ, he can't wait to feel you come on his cock.
You push back into his hand, rutting yourself on his fingers, and it is such a sight he doesn't reprimand you. He loves seeing you like this, messy and lost, all that anxiety and tightly wound thoughts, becoming a slurred mess, begging for him to fuck you. Not tonight, not yet. He's not interested in discerning what it is about you that leads to self-denial, but he’s going to wait until the two of you are desperate for each other, until you can't fucking survive without having him. He knows you're gonna take it so well. His hard cock is uncomfortable in his jeans and needs some goddamn attention, but tonight is about you and whatever the hell you need to get over, about you not trusting him.
Yoongi gets on his knees. Your pretty cunt looks so enticing, nice and wet for him. He just needs a taste, you flinch and call out his name when he takes a lick up your dripping sex. It's obscene, how good you taste, how much he wants to revel in the fact that this is all for him.
It isn't going to take long. You like your punishments, more than like it from the way you are getting loud, mewling as you try to muffle the sounds of pleasure pouring from your lips.
He pulls away, and you whine. "Louder."
You groan at his command.
"Wanna hear you."
He wants nothing more than for you to be his. Even as he sucks at your clit with his lips, gentle. You buck, jerking your hips, and he grabs your ass, still warm from his treatment. He groans into your sex at the way you keen. You're loud now. Lost to it, panting his name.
"Y-yoongi," you barely form the word and muffled by the counter. He is just a little proud of himself. "I'm gonna . . ."
You break off as he sucks on your clit. He takes a finger and runs it along your wet folds, pushing in just a little, giving you far too little for what you want. You squirm in frustration, trying, failing to get him to do more. He curls his finger. "What do you need, sweetheart?"
"I wanna – hic— come." You sound pathetic. There's a desperate sob in your voice, and he fucking loves it.
"What about what I want?" He goes back to his tender licking and playing. You're so soft and loves the way his lips are slick with your desire. He is a terrible tease, but if it gets you where he wants you, then he's fine with it.
"I can't . . ." your legs are trembling, and you're struggling to stay upright and not sink to the floor. You've done well for the first night.
"Come on, then, kitten, come for me." He sucks on your clit, and your pussy clenches around his fingers.
You cry out, a shuddering pleasure that moves through your trembling body. It takes you over, leaving you limp and worn out. You struggle to stay upright. He stands and pulls you from the counter as you shiver. He likes you like this, weak and speechless from the way he made you feel.
Yoongi kisses you, you're pliant as he uses your mouth. You clutch his shirt, crowding into him. There's nothing nice or gentle about the kiss. It's desperate and needy as if all the words he can't say are put into it. Teeth clashing and inelegant just wanting to get as close to you as he can. He kisses your cheek, moving to your neck, small nips as you writhe and moan beneath him. He palms your mound.
Eyes closed, you are barely standing and he's just putting pressure on your pussy and you ground into his hand, his fingers filling you.
"Oh fuck, Y-yoongi."
This is his favorite part, when you forget and just take what you need. "You gonna come again?"
"Please," you whine. You open your eyes, heavy-lidded and red rimmed. You lick your lips.
"Go on, you know I wanna watch."
You move yourself against his fingers. It isn't going to take much, you’re sensitive, and just on the edge of what you need to tip over into pleasure again.
This time you make a silent cry, opening your mouth and he watches the way pleasure moves through your body, pussy squeezing his fingers as you come. He loves seeing you like this, all fucked out and spent.
When you come down, he kisses you slow, languid and gentle. He's never going to get tired of this, never going to get tired of the way you come undone. When the trembling stops and your breathing becomes normal, he helps you off with your shoes and jeans. You're not really following what he's doing, mumbling about something.
Yoongi kisses you. It's messy and fumbling. Your lips are soft and enticing, and he tangles his tongue with yours, languid. He likes this, the way you're fumbling and desperate. He pulls up your panties, gentle and leads you over to the couch. He gives you a few kisses to entice you, since moving isn't very comfortable for you. Your hair is disheveled, your eyes wide, and lips slick. He can't wait to have you splayed out on his bed, presented like a feast.
"Pleaseeeee, Yoongi," you whine. The two of you stand in front of the couch, on the hideous rug Seokjin dragged in here one night.
"What do you want, sweetheart?" Yoongi entwines his fingers with yours.
"Wanna suck your cock."
Yoongi splutters a little. Goddamn, you're cute.
"Please." You kiss him again, this time less soft more like you want him to ruin you. Your hands fumble for his belt, untucking his shirt. It's all a delightful jumble. "Please, I'm gonna be so good for you"
"Yeah," you mumble in reply, still kissing him.
"You gonna let me fuck that sweet mouth?"
Yoongi's done waiting. His dick is in agony, and he wants nothing more than to see his hard cock between your swollen lips. He pulls you toward the couch, falling back to sit legs splayed. You move to the floor, sitting on your knees. You wince when you sit back.
You nod, licking your lips and closing your eyes as you settle back. "I like it. Feels good." Your eyes flash open, and you swallow thickly. "It's not bad, is it? About me?"
Yoongi spots the tears where they dried on your cheeks. Your lips are swollen and a pretty, chapped red. One day he's going to have to find out, going to have the conversation so he learns what happened and what was said to you. It isn't tonight, though. Not now. It's too raw, whatever emotion is racing through your body and leaves you cold. Your eyes are imploring, as if you really need him to tell you if there's something wrong with you.
It shouldn't matter, you know. The fact that you like the burn, like the bruises on your hips and the dull ache in your ass. You shouldn't need anyone's permission, anyone's approval. But you can't help it, it's gone wrong too many times.
"Hey," Yoongi says, distracting you as he leans forward, running a thumb over your cheek. "There's nothing bad about you. How could there be anything bad about you?"
It takes you aback, his simple words, spoken in his questioning raspy way, like he can’t understand you sometimes. The way he says more than he needs sometime. Does he know if he's doing it? Does he know what it means to you?
"I'm sorry." You shake your head. "It’s silly."
Yoongi kisses you, really kisses you like he wants to say a lot but can't put into words. His tongue thrusts into your mouth, assaulting your senses and leaving you bereft when he's done.
He pulls back, breath labored. "We don't have to, if you want –"
Your hands reach up to undo the button of his pants. "If I live one more day on this planet without you coming down my throat, I'm gonna lose it." You peer up at him. "Unless I killed the mood."
"You killed nothing." He says, stroking your cheek. He leans back on the couch, settling in and wiggling a little against the cushion, you want to smile at how cute he is. "I told you, the only thing that kills the mood is clowns."
"See, I told you." His hand comes up to push you gently on your shoulder. He smiles, looking wonderfully smug and, nudges you down and you moan at the exquisite ache.
Yoongi shucks off his shoes and you pull down his pants and underwear, leaving him in nothing but his shirt as he leans back against the couch. He strokes his hard cock, eyes closed. He's tantalizing, and there's something carnal in the casual way he strokes himself, as if he might not let you have a taste.
You bite you lip at the sight, running your hands up and down his bare thighs, wishing you could leave a mark.
"Min. Yoongi." You say, attempting some kind of commanding voice.
He smirks at you.
Well, you failed. Back to mindless pleading. "Yoongi please . . . I swear, you've gotta."
He looks down at you, smiling. "Go on, wanna see you choke on my cock."
Your pussy clenches at his words, the pleasure building again.
You nudge away his hands, and he huffs with laughter. He leans his head back against the couch, as you wrap your fingers around his length, and give him a few strokes. His hands wrap around yours, showing you how he likes it a little harder, tighter. You comply, and he sighs in satisfaction.
You lick your lips. He looks so good, head thrown back, the column of his throat visible, breath steady. He appears a little too calm, a little too in control.
You lean down, taking the head in your mouth, swirling your tongue giving it a lazy, teasing lick before popping off. You taste the precum and hum at the taste. It's been so long, and you've missed this, being in control, being the one who knows what your partner wants. You mouth at the head, teasing.
Yoongi sighs, settling himself even deeper in the couch.
You lick a stripe up the length of his cock, playing with him. "Y/n," he whines, dragging it out, sounding anything but annoyed.
You lavish attention on the head of his cock, working yourself up to it, getting yourself as excited as he is, legs tensing underneath you, hands clutching at the fabric of the couch. You move lower, sucking as you pull back and he gives a satisfied Fucckkk.
It might be the best thing you've ever heard, might make you want to keep going all night.
His breathing is labored now, his groans getting louder, more drawn out with every suck, with every swirl of your tongue.
You pull off, with an obscene slurp, and he gawks down at you, startled. "What –"
You pick up on of his hand, clutching at the couch, silver rings prominent. You place it on top of your head. He gently pushes you back down his length, and you take him even farther this time. He sucks in a hiss as the sensation. As you begin to move up and down, he pushes down your head, not to hard, and you marvel again at his restraint.
You stroke his cock, pulling off. "Harder," you say, words slurred.
He's mesmerized at the spit stretching from your mouth to his cock. You're slobbering and messy. He nods stupidly, this time when he grips your head it's more forceful.
He's loud, he's vocal about what he likes, and he likes it all. Desire whirls low in your belly, at the way he's come undone under your mouth. His thighs tense under your hands. His breath is coming faster now, more labored, sucking in the air between his teeth, his chest lowering and rising above you.
"Babe," Yoongi says, voice low and rough.
You glance up at him, even as you still mouth at his cock. Sweat is dripping down his throat, his head is thrown back, and he's biting his lip. It's all for you.
You hum in satisfaction, going back to deep throating him. You suck harder as you pull off, now working him so good, he's squirming underneath you.
"So fucking good." He's panting, his breath labored as if he wants to hold it off, wants to keep going. "Oh god, oh, fuckkkk."
He's an incoherent mess, and you would smile if you weren't stuffed full with his cock. Instead you swallow, tightening around the head.
It's enough, and he comes with a long drawn out groan, hands grasping and legs tense. Swallowing his cum, you don’t mind the taste knowing how much he likes this from the sounds he’s making. He pulls out slowly, and a little oversensitive he hisses.
"So good for me, yeah." Yoongi says, all mumbled and tired. It's muffled even as he kisses you pulling you up and into his lap. "Such a good girl."
He cradles you in his lap, and with a heaving chest he holds you to him. It's hot and he's sweaty, and your ass is sore, and you're legs are trembling, and he's smiling with his eyes closed, and it feels almost perfect.
Yoongi doesn't want to move to wake you, so he sits in the growing darkness, mind wandering, content even though he knows he should be putting on his clothes or taking a shower or doing any number of things, but stay here, holding you. The candles burn out. The room is dark but for the city lights coming through the window.
You stir. It hasn't been long you were out. You're mumbling about something. There are tear marks on your cheeks, and whatever you were going through, whatever fear was moving through you is gone, wrung out and forgotten. He can't do much, but he can give you this.
"I should go," you mumble into his neck. You’re still cradled in his lap.
He doesn't know why you're always running away. He wraps his arms tighter around you.
As if losing your courage, you close your eyes and press your face into the crook of his neck. "It's a book."
Yoongi guessed, but this isn't the time.
"You probably guessed."
He nods. He doesn't understand, but he interprets it from the way your hands worry at the sleeve of your sweater and you hide your face that this is big for you. Biggest, maybe. He doesn't understand why you don't just run after what you want, take it with both hands. He doesn't understand anyone who doesn't go after what they want.
"If I talk about it, I might not do it," you say. Now you play with his hands, holding them in yours and inspecting each in turn, it's odd and endearing. "Thanks, for helping me not worry . . . not be so consumed, I guess."
"Everyone needs help."
Your shoulders shake in laughter, and he sees your eyes alight before you say anything.
"Even your perfect little . . . sloth? Slob?"
"Hey," Yoongi says, not really minding but wishing you hadn’t heard his slip up.
"Slytherin?" You pull back, smiling and looking delighted with yourself as you continue to hold his hand.
"I'm learning, okay." He focuses on the way your fingers are entwined with his. "It's sort of my go to."
At his words you look up at him. Even though a wince of pain moves across your face, you move to sit in his lap and straddle his waist, still wearing your sweater and panties. It's a good look on you.
"Thank you." You bite your lip. "For remembering."
You cradle his face in your hands, and it seems you are thanking him for a lot more than just remembering a simple fact – a fact he actually forgot in the moment when he should have remembered.
You kiss him gently on the lips like a prince awakening a sleeping beauty, chaste and gentle. It feels lovely. It feels like you haven't really kissed him at all before this.
"Stay," he implores. "Sleep here, okay?"
Your gaze is soft, as you smile and nod. You snuggle into him, closing your eyes. "I’m tired."
"What are you doing New Year's?" Yoongi asks, before thinking too much about it. "Do you have to work at the gas station?"
"I have the night off."
"Come to a party with me."
You pull back, meeting his eye. "Like a party-party?"
"I don't know what that is, but . . . probably?"
"Do I need to wear a dress and get all fancified?"
"Probably?" Yoongi names the hotel.
The surprise shows on your face. "Wow, fancy-fancy."
"Namjoon's label is putting it on. Come with me."
You gaze at him, like a fortune teller trying to divine the future. "Of course . . .yeah, I'll go with you."
Yoongi hides his relief by wrapping you in his arms. Pulling you to him, he realizes he didn’t plan to ask you or even go to the event, but it feel right. Besides, Yoongi always goes after what he wants.