Archive of Our Own

Yoongi’s lips taste like teriyaki. He probably had chicken for lunch. On the sweeter side. Not the place across the street from the studio. They’re a little heavy-handed on the soy sauce.

“Missed you,” he whines, his frame pinning you down to your bed. “Need you.”

“Need?” you ask, surprised at the word. You hadn’t been concerned. You never really are with him. He certainly didn’t seem upset when he called and asked if you were home. Maybe he, through the peephole, was a bit more eager than usual for the door to open. But when he saw you in nothing but your mauve, satin camisole and matching shorts, he looked like he always looks when he looks at you. Just… sure. Simply sure.

He stepped forward as you made space, and he wrapped his fingers around the edge of the door to have something to leverage when kissing you. Zealous. Fiery. But when it comes to his favorite endeavors, Yoongi’s a zealous, fiery person. The door slammed shut so hard that your neighbor’s chain lock rattled.

Throughout the backwards dance from your threshold to your mattress, you giggled, and he growled.

Now, he’s mashing his lips against yours again, his bent knees spreading farther apart and sinking his hips onto yours. You groan at the added pressure of his body. Weeks have ended not with his sharp tongue, whetted fingers, or piercing cock, but dull pixels. You have needs, too. 

“Y’feel good,” he mumbles, against your cheek, lips twisted and tongue reaching for a taste. They form a kiss, and you whine happily at the feel and sound of him. Your hand slides up the back of his neck, palm resting at the short hairs there, but fingers fisting into the longer locks starting just under his crown. He hisses, and then he moves his mouth to yours, sucking and biting your bottom lip to get you to open your mouth wider before diving in with his wet, flexing tongue.

Your squirming makes him hold you even tighter. And your squirming against his hips makes him grip his clothed shaft stiffer. He doesn’t know what it is about you. He admittedly doesn’t know much about you. But he’s excited to find out. Nearly as excited as the muscle pushing against the inseam of his jeans. He wonders if you’re quicker on the uptake, and guesses as much when you reach up and grasp him with your free hand, squeezing his knuckles even tighter. Do you know how much he likes you?

Shoulders knock against each other when he lets his upper body rest on yours. He pulls off his jacket and throws it behind him, the kiss never once being threatened to break.

Do you just look like that when you’re in your apartment? Hair in easy waves, smile a gentle ripple, body outlined by serene curves? Do you always cook (something with chili paste, maybe?) in sexy little pajamas, costumed less as a woman in the real world and more the woman of his fantasies? 

“Thought about you,” he tells you. 

And then everything disappears again. There is only Yoongi, tugging down his unzipped jeans and pressing his naked bulge into your flesh, increased heft and sensitivity making you both moan into each others’ mouths. You have to remind yourself that you live alone in an apartment. You pay rent. You have a job. You make a living. You have a life outside of this. Though you’re beginning to think you don’t want to.

Nails, you remember. Might’ve been the third or fourth date. If the romantic attraction was quick, the sexual chemistry appeared like lightning. You graze his long, tense shaft with your matching mauve nails, and he grunts into your throat. How do you already know the exact speed and pressure that he likes? How do you know that it’s the color of your nails as much as it is the dexterity of your fingers? How many colors has he seen on you when you’ve done this? Black like night. Pink like cotton candy. His favorite might be yellow like bananas. But this mauve is becoming a favorite. And when you run your thumb over the head, he swears that mauve is going to take the top spot by the end of the night. His cock twitches up and down, so you angle it up, crown in the sky, underside resting on your mound, balls gently tapping your lips. One pump. Two. The added glide from the silk of your shorts is appreciated but not needed with how much he’s already dripping. And he’s already shuddering, his exhaled puffs of air forced from his tonsils to echo against yours.

God. Your eyes are closed. How are you doing this with your eyes closed? Wait, how long have you been kissing? When was the last time he took a breath? Can you breathe? When was the last time you took a breath?

Fuck. He’s so pent up. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t come yet? You can feel each vein throbbing with something more urgent than a simple orgasm. You aren’t sure if that means to pick things up or slow things down.

You whimper to get a sense. 

But it makes him think of Hobi’s voice, tight and rushing through the phrase. Force potent, but rhythm jerky, like his dancing, when he’s especially passionate. And the nerve of Namjoon siding with him. Namjoon’s pained but defeated gaze crossing the room and resignedly resting in Yoongi’s pupils. It all stings so sharply that Yoongi feels like he’s going to cry.

He pulls away from your lips as threads of memories threaten to re-knit themselves into the cage that had been trapping his brain. You’d worked carefully for the past, what, hour now?, to dismantle it. Lips plump and rubbed raw. Skin splotchy in places where you’ve both taken time to taste. Unfair that he hides away again. But it’s also oddly impressive, how quickly he retreats.

“We can take it slow,” you whisper up at him, sliding your hands up and down the jeaned thighs now still.

“I know, it’s not a competition,” he recites, sounding like a robot, but with a voice weighted with wisdom. He knows better. He knows that you know that he knows better. And he knows that you know that he’s talking about something else entirely. But it’s all pushing against the walls of his throat, bulging so strongly that he’s actively trying to choke the words back down. 

“The album,” you say more than you ask.

He pouts as he runs his hands under your top, feeling your naked chest. Your skin rises to meet his fingertips. It wants to fill the space between their ridges. Everyone’s are unique, singular to each person. You only want Yoongi’s on you from now on.

“Is everything OK?” you ask.

Yoongi shrugs.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Lots of things.” He blinks a couple of times. “Everything.”

Yoongi mulls over the things. And then everything.

“I have concerns,” he summarizes.

You won’t get more details than that. And not just because of legal, record label reasons.

“Well,” you say, “what did the group say when you told them?” 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, and he sits back on his calves, palms resting on your kneecaps. He looks down and sees that your camisole has shifted, and the swell of your right breast is peeking out, nipple just shy of greeting him. He smiles softly and reaches out, massaging the mound, thumb dipping behind the fabric and flicking over that still-taut nub. He straddles your left leg and gives you his unassumingly thick thigh to grind against. You loll your head back and shut your eyes to enjoy it, hips swaying so tantalizingly slowly.

“I wish I could tell them this kind of stuff,” he laments softly, gazing at your lazily working body through his heavy lids. He licks his lips as you pivot your hips, bone pressing into the mattress, ass cheeks hanging out your shorts, but chest and face still aimed towards him, your body blending out into the soft waves of your sheets, undulating from your movements. It’s so soothing. Like being out in the calm seas.

He leans down to kiss you, and you try your best to stay steady for him. He returned. You don’t want to spook him.

You certainly hope that’s not what has happened when he pulls away again, grunting with a different kind of frustration.

But there’s a comforting smile on your lips. There’s no reason to mourn the loss of the moment. You can make more. It’s only been a short time, but you’ve made so many. “Tell them to me, then.”

Dampness greets your chest when Yoongi rests his forehead there, sighing into your soft, woken breasts, the thin material of your camisole bending to his breath and wrapping around your nipples. You lick your lips and moan softly, pressing your wet but clothed flesh around his now-working waist, his warm, wet cock sliding up and down your thigh. The stretches of late afternoon sun warm you elsewhere. Bars of gold against your billowing forms.

He slows to a stop and finally rests his delicate but defined chin on your stomach. “No. I don’t wanna go back there. I wanna be here. With you.”

“You are here. And so am I.” When you run your hand through his hair, pushing it to one side and ruffling it just right, he looks up at you, and his eyes are so wide and dewy that he almost looks like a cartoon. 

You chuckle softly, and he frowns.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I just wanna make things better for you. How can I make you feel better?”

You reach down for his cock, still hard despite the puzzle he’s desperately trying to work out. You cup your fingers around him and stroke while also moving your hips backwards and forwards. He puffs out his chest and keens up at your ceiling. The contrast between your thigh and palm. Yoongi used to think there was just “soft” and “hard”. But your hand is supple, while your thigh is plush. 

The rest of the vocabulary your body has given him. Pillowy. Silky. Downy. Velvety. He’ll never run out of words.

That’s kind of the problem.

Just as you’re noticing that he’s wearing a see-through shirt, and appreciating the definition of his pecs and biceps, running your hand up his torso to feel the depth of that definition for yourself, he grunts and stops his careful stroke, letting his head hang.

You run your hand back down his torso, rubbing his clenched belly.

You speak in as quiet of a voice as you can offer. “I’m listening.”

He looks back at you, enjoying the feel of your index finger tracing down the line separating his abs, and how the rest of your fingertips collect at his happy trail, teasing the hairs by the waist of his boxers.

“It’s just…”

He sighs and places the heels of his hands at his temples, scrunching his face and shaking his head.

“I don’t think we’re headed in the right direction for one of our tracks.” No matter how hard he shakes his head, he won’t be able to rid himself of the look on Hobi and Namjoon’s faces. “I said some things.” Hobi was so stunned that he fell completely silent. And the last time Namjoon’s eyes narrowed that thinly, someone had said or done something offensive to one of the maknaes. Given his anger, it was probably regarding Jungkook. That bad. Yoongi knows that he flies off the handle quite easily, but he’s always been more bird than missile. Terrifying, homing in on another member like that.

Are geniuses lonely because they always know they’re right?

“Shit’s got me so tight,” Yoongi groans, scratching his irritated skin as he drags his fists down the side of his face.

“Hey.” You sit up and bring your hands to the sides of his face, hoping that though your palms are sweaty, they help cool the red tracks that you hoped would have shown up on his back instead. Or yours. 

He looks at you and huffs. And then he begrudgingly places a kiss on your lips, making you snort giggles through your nose and onto the tip of his. You close your eyes, and kiss again, and you jolt when you feel Yoongi’s fingers climbing into the band of your shorts. 

“So tight,” Yoongi purrs, attention refocused. 

You bite your lip, and your temple tips your head to the side, taking the room with it like an Escher and blurring the room into watercolors like a Sargent when Yoongi’s mouth finds its way to your neck. Angling for your heated center, you force Yoongi’s finger between your folds, and he lets out a long, low grunt at the feel of your juices. A tight squeeze, and then overflowing release. Like tapping a tree for sap and discovering the best harvest. Sweet, syrupy yield. You prefer slow burns of all kinds, but Yoongi has revved you up and shut you off so often today that you’re running out of space to hold everything he’s given you. You’re starting to get a little selfish. Your frustrated hips, working yet again, move a little faster this time. Maybe if you just---

“Ugh,” Yoongi groans, retreating from your entrance proper and leaning back from you, “god, I’m sorry, I just…”

You watch him crawl off of the mattress and leave your bedroom, disappearing from sight. 

“Where are you going?” you ask.

“I’m hungry.”

He needs more fuel than just anger. His mind is picking up the puzzles he’s been working on. The dish you were making (eggs, veggies, a bottle of chili paste, he knew he smelled it, beef, a frying pan, and day-old rice). The track (he’s still right, he just knows it). And the strange reaction he had. The pressure’s been on before. Worse, even. Why did he blow up?

Yoongi pops back into view, framed by the doorjamb and lintel. He looks so small.

You lie back down, hand finding your warmth and picking up where Yoongi left off. You look up at the ceiling thoughtfully as your fingers dance around your entrance. “I could finish making that fried rice.” Wait. Do you have enough rice to share? “Uh, there are also some Pringles in the pantry.”

A smirk forms when you hear the cupboard door open.

“Pizza?!”

The smirk grows into a playful smile. “You disapprove of my Pringles selection?”

“No. But you should at least stay stocked with the basics. Original. And Sour Cream and Onion.” You hear the edge of the can scrape the bottom of the shelf. The chips shift softly before the plastic lid pops off. Then, soft munches of flaky potato.

You think about tomorrow, when you’ll be pulling the appropriate red and green cans off the shelf and nestling them on top of your floss and toothpaste in the basket hanging in the crook of your elbow. Maybe he’s there with you. Maybe he’s not. But the cans will be there for him. For the next time he comes over. 

That scares you a little bit.

Your fingers move a little faster. Your heart does, too.

The can lands on the kitchen counter, and you hear the fridge open.

You slow your movements and listen for more clues.

“Ooh!”

You turn your head at Yoongi’s adorable squeal and see him holding up a bag filled with tiny, adorable, orange gummy bears. You only see him from his chest up. His pants are still sagging. You imagine his dick in your fridge. 

He cocks an eyebrow at you.

A soft laugh drifts out of your open mouth. The gelatin moulds were only 2 bucks a pop, and they made 20 each. The hardest parts were decarbing the wax properly, and measuring everything out to ensure that each edible had the same strength. 

Yoongi disappears from sight again and reappears, closer, and bigger. You grin at his tousled hair. His still-unzipped jeans.

“Can I have some?” he asks, holding the bag of gummies out to you like a bag of cash.

You roll onto your side to face him, propping your head up and squeezing your thighs together, hand still between your legs. His eyes follow your teasing fingers dipping into the leghole of your shorts. “How many do you think you want?” you ask.

He licks his lips. “Like, a handful?” Yoongi turns his head back to the bag, but his eyes take their time to land. “Thought I could bring some back to the studio with me. Peace offering.”

“They’re strong,” you caution, with a small moan.

Yoongi sighs. “I like strong. I think I need strong.”

He looks so sweet, standing there in all earnesty, dick still out, pants still on because of how they tug his high, round ass. He pushes his lips out when you still haven’t said anything, and you mirror the expression. You’re still not really thinking, more experiencing, melting from moment to moment. You had woken from your midday nap still in a fog, and you had nursed the high, cherishing it with a few hits off of your pen. You want to do the same with Yoongi, his lips, his fingers, his cock. Place them in your eager mouth and draw that smoky, soft, happy haze out. The rice can wait. The ache to fill your belly has been supplanted with something else entirely. You need strong, too.

You grin. “How ‘bout this: you can have one for each time you make me come.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows curl upwards in confusion, but the smirk on his face tells you that it’s feigned.

“Whatever. You heard me.”  You stretch out and start to roll away. “Or maybe you don’t want any.”

The dull thud of the gummies landing on your dresser is already making you laugh, so when he jumps onto the bed, you squeal and cackle with warm glee. 

He snuggles against you, both of you lying on your right sides, his arm sliding up the side of your calf.

“Sounds like you want some,” he mumbles.

“I do,” you whine. His fingers feel so good, and all they’re doing is tracing shapes into your skin. “Didn’t think I’d have to barter for it, though.” 

“You don’t. You know that, right?”

His lips graze your ear when he says it, and your stomach somersaults. The questions start. What else does he like? What else of his will you like? What small adventure will he bring you today? This phase of things is always the best. Addictive, really. Maybe that’s why you live the way you do. Why nobody else’s Pringles selections are ever in your pantry.

“Well, you’re certainly sending me mixed signals here,” you joke.

Yoongi’s hand stops at the back of your knee. He leans over you, brushing your hair away and back, exposing your cheek and the side of your neck. His eyes follow the curves, still needing the map for now. But he’s a fast learner. “Then let me set things straight,” he tells you, leaning down and pressing his lips onto the underside of your jaw. 

His hand starts to travel over and back, behind your knee now. 

“I came here because I wanted to see you,” he says, low, and firm.

His palm flattens, gliding across the back of your thigh, tickling you and making you shudder. 

“I wanted to fuck you.” The bit of a snarl sends you reeling.

His hand climbs up and slides between your ass cheeks for just a moment, grabbing and separating you, his fingers almost like claws as more syrup leaks out and makes its escape. His fingertips tease at your entrance. You whimper, squirming, trying to lean forward, but his other arm snakes between you and the mattress, slithering into the space where your waist curves up, and he snaps you to him, your back hitting his chest, and his surprisingly muscular forearm flexing and caging you in.

“But also, I don’t just want to fuck you. I want you. I want you when I need a pick-me-up after a bad day. When I’m hungry. When I’m happy. When I’m sleepy. When I’m busy.”

His working hand runs over and to the front of your thigh, fingers wedging between and sliding up to your pussy, now throbbing with need. You need your front teeth to dig into your lip like it’s doing if you’re going to make it out of this still conscious. 

You grind against his hand, and he works it faster than earlier, your entrance drowning him in reward. He places kisses along your neck, and onto your shoulder. Light kisses, barely perceptible, but stamping heat that drills into your core. You’re tightening again, and as Yoongi slips past the barrier of your panties and into your naked, sweating flesh, he senses that it’s not just your walls flexing, expanding, and contracting. It’s not just your throat constricting as you squeeze out pained grunt after grunt. It’s not just your grip on his forearm, clasping and holding in return when his fingers slide inside of you. It’s something else threatening to crumble, and he’s grateful he gets to be part of it with you, that he gets to have this calm that you bring so effortlessly, even when you’re both grinding vigorously against one another, two branches threatening to spark flame.

“I don’t need a reason,” he whispers. He pulls the hand that’s in front of you to your chest and interlocks his fingers with yours. “I want you all the time.”

You come apart, and you wonder how you feel so loaded, warm, like his cock is already inside of you, though you know it’s actually still bouncing against your ass, sliding up, tip touching your back at times, or sliding through, between your cheeks and thighs, only adding to the mess that you’re making as you ride the wave.

He whines as he kisses you, his cock pulsing. You feel so good against him. Strong. It makes him strong, too. He swears his cock has never been this full. He didn’t know it could be. He clicks his tongue when you reach back for it, pulling his boxers down just enough, your hand soft and wet and sending him into a blinding heat. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead onto your shoulder as you speed up, and he speeds up, and---

“God, I meant what I said, but I still want to fuck you,” Yoongi says desperately, forcing himself out of your grip and making you laugh. “You’re too good at that. Wait. I need two more gummies.”

“How are you gonna earn them?” you ask playfully, the edges of your orgasm fading.

Yoongi hums, continuing to pull back and away from you before repositioning himself at your knees. You smile at his cock, so stiff and ready that it’s nearly pointing to the ceiling. You reach out for it again with both hands, but Yoongi takes your fingers in his and interlocks them, getting you to lie back down and relax.

“‘Earn’ implies I’ve gotta do the work.” That’s new. His husky, mischievous tone. “So let me do the work.” God. How do you want to fuck a voice? 

You moan as he pulls your shorts down your legs, tossing them and your underwear aside without looking. The focus he has. He hadn’t yet beamed all of it onto you today, and to have it coming full force is starting to seem better than a pantry with just your favorite food. 

You close your eyes.

“Don’t hide.” He says it so gently. “Please don’t hide.”

You take a deep breath, emotions strange and sitting uncomfortably in your chest.

“Not going anywhere, believe me,” you chuckle lightly.

But when the odd silence hits you, and you open your eyes to look at him again, he’s staring at you so seriously, and carefully, that your smile disappears.

“Yes, you are,” he points out. “But I wanna be the one to send you there.”

You gaze up at him as he brings the back of your hand to his cheek. 

“OK?” he asks. 

You fight your nervous eyelids, and tensing shoulders, and itchy feet, and whatever other alarms are going off right now.

You just nod.

He kisses the back of your hand before pulling you up to him. And then you both sink into a kiss like suds around you in the perfect bubble bath, heated and precious and cleansing. As he kisses you, he lifts your top from your frame, breaking the kiss only when the fabric slides up. When you whimper against his pout, he places a peck on your lips, grasps your fingers between his, and nudges your head back with his chin.

You don’t protest the cue this time. You merely lie back down. 

And then you watch him as he sinks down to your mound. He breathes deeply, and warmly. And he keeps his eyes on you.

“OK,” he sighs against you, reminding you. 

When your eyes threaten to roll back into your head, he tightens his knuckles against yours. But, to be fair, it’s hard to keep your eyes completely open. His tongue is so broad that it sweeps against everything, your outer shell, your inner shell, the pearl inside. Each unrushed lick upwards takes all of you with it. Even your hips match the movement. Just like the fog had done for you earlier, Yoongi’s making you so physically responsive while completely shutting down the word-conjuring parts of your brain. Noises are all that’s left. You have to dig through the rubble to scrounge “unh”s and “mmm”s and “ooh”s. Soon, even those are all out. So when Yoongi noses your clit and burrows even deeper, eyes still latched, you’re reduced to gasps and groans. 

He won’t even let you touch yourself, his knuckles like locks. He loves seeing you writhe. The way your ribcage, glistening with sweat, leads the charge up, and then, when he backs off a little, brings everything down, your tits bouncing and jiggling as you ebb and flow to his rhythm. 

He plays around with it, too. Once he knows you’re ready to play, that is. His tongue tip flicks in the hidden spaces, caressing the seams of your outer and inner lips. His lips nibble at the bottom of your canal, almost sweeping back and into your ass, but not wanting to push just yet. He doesn’t want to take a mile. He wants every single inch of you, and he wants to stretch them across as much time as you’ll have.

And then his lips surround that delicious treasure, forming a seal.

“Ooh, god, Yoongi,” you moan.

He lets you close your eyes for that one.

But when he grunts insistently, pressing harder into you, your eyes flash open and meet his again. When they do, the severe look on his face softens, and he begins to work his jaw and neck, moving from broad strokes to tiny touches, rolling you between his lips. Between his tongue and his top lip, as his chin teases your entrance. Between his tongue and his bottom lip, as he sucks the front of your fold. Between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, his tongue sometimes sliding into your cave and searching. Between his tongue and teeth. Between his teeth, base just softly squeezed as his tongue plays with the pressure-filled tip. And then he begins to suck.

“Fuck,” you keen. 

He lets you close your eyes for that one, too. But it’s too good. He has to call you back.

“Don’t stop,” you whine.

“Eyes on me, babe,” he tells you.

You look back at him, fraught and weary.

“How do you taste so good?” Yoongi asks. 

The question helps. You didn’t know you did, necessarily. You bite your lip as you watch him enjoy you. He gets so entranced, muttering “so fucking good” into your pussy and letting go of one of your hands to grasp his shaft and start to stroke into his grip. And you get it now. Why he wants you to look at him. It turns you on to see him. To see him so turned on. So turned on by you. 

You groan and grab his knuckles tighter. You send the clench to his other fist. He gets the message, his hips snapping and pausing, and his lips faltering a bit against your clit when he mutters, “goddamn”.

Yoongi sweats a lot, but he can’t remember the last time he’s gotten this sweaty, not while focused on someone else. It feels good. Like he’s working out. Working shit out.

He sends it all right back to you, tightening the seal that his lips have around you, juices mixing and overflowing. Can you get a bruise down there? Do you care?

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him.

Yoongi stays steady, maybe intensifying the pressure a little bit, and your moan soars out to try to get some kind of release. He stops stroking himself, though his hips keep moving when he places his hand on your thigh and grabs a mound of flesh to brace. You cry out and slap your hand over his, and he grunts out chuckles when your mouth falls open, head up and rolling around, eyes fighting to stay open as you meet his efforts with grinding and winding of your own. He starts to slam his chin into you, the pounding compounding all that beautiful work his mouth has done. More of your syrup seeps out. Everything is already so loud and wet.

“God,” you gasp, as your orgasm comes. Your hips shift into a lower gear as you shake, moving slower and softer now as Yoongi rubs his chin, lips, and nose against you, both of you watching each other in quiet reverence.

Before you come to a complete halt, Yoongi kisses the insides of your thighs and props himself at a 45-degree angle, hoisted up on his elbows on either side of you, ass in the air. He asks, “One more. What’s it gonna be?”

You take a peek at that ass in those white jeans. “Take your fucking pants off already,” you moan with need, letting your head slump and fall back to the mattress.

Yoongi laughs. “You’re sure?”

“Look at me,” you sigh, aggravated. That trip to the store might have to happen today instead. You’re out of laundry detergent. “You already have me a mewling mess.” You enumerate the list. Laundry detergent. Softener. Toothpaste. Floss. 

Original Pringles. 

And Sour Cream and Onion.

Maybe a new pack of cheap panties. Fuck. You’ll have to see.

Yoongi wiggles out of his jeans and boxers. “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you see me earlier?” Your moans won’t soon leave his mind. Neither will the way your body curved and bent. You sent tingles up his spine and down his shaft. “I had to be selfish for a moment.” He wants to give those tingles back to you.

You smile brightly. That isn’t so bad. “I like selfish,” you say. Maybe this is one of the things you can bring to the table for him. “I liked watching you be selfish.”

Yoongi blushes. He actually blushes. “Oh.” And then he grins. “Really?”

“Really,” you purr.

“Mm.” He reaches back and pulls his white, mesh shirt off in one swoop. You’re familiar with the movement. It fucking gets you every time. But to see that white, mesh shirt. To know he has one. To see bits and pieces of him as he’s revealing it all. To see him flex, wind left to slide the sleeve off, then wind right to do it again. To see the neckhole graze against that soft yet chiseled jaw, chin gleaming in the fast-setting sun. To know that when you kiss it, you will taste yourself.

“Fuck me good, Yoongi,” you tell him, as he crawls over you. But it means so much more than that. Fuck me good. Treat me good. Be good.

“Always,” he says. Simple. Knowing. Understanding.

You don’t just sink into the next kiss. You melt. You nearly evaporate. This kind of heat is new to you. Not the kind made through error or effort. The kind that just happens. Lightning bolts. Volcanoes. Unbeknownst to everyone else, but always simmering. It erupts in its own time, and when it does, all you can do is let it rage.

The first stroke is shallow, but god, the way you respond to him. Yoongi hums tentatively, eyes squinching, tongue licking his lips quickly before pulling his mouth into a tight grimace. He grunts and exhales slowly as you widen around him. He lets his nose sink to your breast. You feel so right. But he wants to give you time. He feels you twisting torturously underneath him, with the rate your nipple is grazing against his lips. He catches it for a taste, making you cry out. But he also wants to be selfish.

“I said fuck me,” you whimper. What is taking so long?

His words are a little choked off, the ends of them clipped and transformed into grunts and falling sighs. “You’re so tight, ugghhhh.” A deep breath doesn’t help. “It doesn’t hurt, unnnnggg?” He sounds so worried.

You shake your head. “Can make it tighter,” you offer.

“Don’t.” A note of warning. “At least… not yet.”

You smile, flattered.

Yoongi pulls back and slides into you again, full and steady. Deep. Very, very deep.

“Ooh, yeah, god, that’s it,” you sigh, moving with him, snapping your hips at the end of each stroke to give his crown the attention it needs.

He grunts, higher-pitched now, and says, “I like how you do that. How you hold on until---”

Another snap of your hips, and he lets his head fall again. You chuckle, pleased with yourself. You’ll have a solid argument against his no-looking-away rule. You hope it doesn’t turn into a fight. You also kind of hope it does.

Then again, friction as a concept is disappearing. Everything is too wet. Too sloppy. “Fuck”s and “yes”es and “uh-huh”s are sliding over one another. It’s all a bleary mess.

You’re going limp, too relaxed and yet too constricted, tense in the places where Yoongi wants to lift the stress. He places his hands on your shoulders and repositions his angle, not so straightforward but scraping against your side wall to help you open up just a little more. You hiss at the burn, and you reward him in kind with red scratches on his arms.

He leans down to feel your lips on his, fucking you harder, hips playing with angles and speed and power. At times, you move slow and aimless, his strong thrust still far-reaching and very much still a pound, but separated by long stretches of sighs and moans and kisses. 

At times, you go mid-tempo when you discover something new that you want to ride out. Like how much you like the way he corkscrews a bit, his tongue tight against the corner of his lips as he lets his hands daydreamily grope your breasts while he concentrates on leading with his pelvis. Or how much he likes the way you lift your pelvis off the mattress to meet him, propping yourself up on your elbows and letting your hair fall back over the edge of the mattress, locks dangling freely as you stride along his torso as much as you stride along his cock. 

He loves feeling your syrup on his skin. Thinking about you licking it off of him later.

And now, you’re both loving the way your bodies knock into each other as Yoongi falls back down to you to kiss you, and to shift into his ass-primed piston stroke, your voice ringing out in corrugated vibrato with each quick and deep pump. 

You can’t do this anymore. You have to break the kiss. “I wanna come,” you whine. “Can I come? Please, let me come?”

That you would ask him. He nearly does right there and then.

“Come for me,” he tells you, voice shaky, telling you he’s close.

“You’ll come too?” you ask.

“No. We can---” He doesn’t want to assume. “I-I mean, I can just---”

“But I want you to,” you whine. “Come with me. Come inside me.”

Yoongi’s look of pleasure turns quizzical. “You sure?”

Your nails rip into his back. “Need it. Fill me up.”

He groans and nods, lowering down to your lips for more kisses.

Faster. Harder. Your squeals compete with those of your mattress.

And then you remember to tighten. You tighten your thighs. You tighten your ass. You recreate the burn you feel at the gym, when you’re doing squats. When you’re stretching and clenching to release some of the tension built up from sitting at your desk all day. When you’re touching yourself at the thought of Yoongi fucking you, exactly like he’s doing now.

The beginnings of a growl start to edge out of Yoongi’s throat. Your mouths fall open, and you match him with a growl of your own. That added clench makes him lurch forward. He’s getting disoriented, dizzy at how your cunt can feel so much like your mouth and vice versa. How you’re everything at once. How raw he is. It’s making it hard for him to hold on until you’re trembling, delicate and soft, worn-out, exposed, gripping his neck tightly until the last explosion is triggered, and then running your hands down his shoulders and arms as the waves start to dull. You smile up at him, reveling in the feeling of his thick cum mixing with your arousal and spilling out of both of you, thrilled that though he wanted to send you places, he came with you instead.

He kisses you, exhausted.

And then you pull him into you. “C’mere. Lie down on top of me.”

He wiggles against you, making your breast jiggle, and you both laugh. 

“Nice?” he asks, pressing a kiss onto your temple.

“Better than nice,” you sigh, finally content. “Fun. Good.”

Yoongi sighs.

“How do you feel?” you ask him, wrapping your legs around him.

“Miles away. And lighter.” He kisses your cheek. “I’ll say sorry. They’ll forgive me. We’ll figure it out. It’s what we do.”

That calm trust. It undoubtedly comes from the same place that his self-assurance does, fully on display when he first asked you out. Where was it again? Dinner with friends? Something like that.

You remember the food in the kitchen. “What do you wanna do now?” you ask gently, hand soothingly running up and down the muscles on his back. “Still hungry?”

“We could order something,” he offers. “My treat.”

“I was cooking.”

“I know. That’s why I said we could order something.”

You bite his arm, and he laughs. “Fine,” you sigh. “Let me get my phone and---”

“But, um…” He sounds so small when he says it. “Just lie here with me a little longer, though,” he tells you. “Let’s just stay in the haze.”