maui @1309films - Tumblr Blog

limbo, m | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: A movie night turns into a happening that wasn't planned. You wake up and see Min Yoongi trapped in the limbo of his nightmares, his fist clenched in your blankets. You had given up on this feeling everyone called love. And yet, you reach over.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; sex with feelings, classic wiyllt; smut (fem reader, flashbacks of fucking, rough sex, mutual erotic choking, m-receiving oral, scratching / marking, many descriptions of hand placements can you tell I have a forearm kink, penetrative sex, choking during orgasm, giving a handjob while being choked, cum-eating / licking cum off your ass); non-idol!AU; fwb but actually lovers who refuse to admit it

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He was asleep and you could feel his nightmares.

It was achingly quiet when you opened your eyes. Happened all the time, all your life, either due to your inexplicably outlandish dreams or from the crawling parasites everyone liked to call emotions. You would wake up, be irritated that it wasn’t because of your alarm, and then close your eyes again to start the lengthy torturous cycle of falling asleep once more. Always took your time falling asleep, unless you exhausted yourself first.

You could feel his nightmares.

That was why this waking was different this time. The curtains were still open, letting in a wash of moonlight. You glanced down, seeing that the television was still on. Not a big black rectangle mounted to the wall as usual, but instead showing the display screen of the DVD inserted. You picked up the remote beside you and turned it off. The screen went black.

You saw the blurred outline of yourself, ensnared in blankets and pillows.

Beside you, a man.

The paleness of his face stood out even in the imperfect reflection. A whiteish smear surrounded by tresses of black locks. His clothes and surroundings were also black, shades of darkness highlighted by the moon. He was pitched to one side, creating a crease in the shape of his body into the pillows stacked around him.

You turned your head to the left.

He was asleep. His right arm was sticking out of the blankets, his forearm fair and thin against the maroon of the soft cotton. There was a thin silver chain around his wrist, along with a band of black leather, stamped shut with a skull-shaped clasp.

The collide.

You remembered all the details. His face against your face. Your eyelids lowered, seeing nothing but his shaking lips. Body to body, his charcoal grey shirt pressed up to your tight mesh dress with the red slip. You hand was on his forearm, fingertips against his wrist. Tangling the tips of your red-and-black nails on a thin silver chain and black leather, and his hand on your shoulder tightened as you touched his cheek, pulling his lips closer, and there was a whisper between him and you, something about how red your lipstick was, and you felt yourself smile.

“Would you rather I kiss you in places others can’t see, Yoongi?” you murmured.

A scoff of disbelief.

“Just warning you.”

You raised your lashes, staring into eyes that matched the color of dark roast coffee. They burned with the same kind of concentrated, potent energy.

“You don’t find smeared lipstick sexy?”

Rather than giving you an answer, those liquid orbs rippled with pleasure at the challenge.

He had closed the distance.

On this night, now, you looked down and saw that Min Yoongi’s hand was clenched into a fist.

You didn’t know if they were nightmares. It was a guess from the tension fuzzing up the edges of his demeanor. From the furrowed cease in his brow to the splay of his black hair over his face, thin strands clinging to his forehead. The tendons of his neck stood out. A strange noise fluttered in his chest and his head ticked, as if to push aside his hair obstructing the dream view, but the movement only made it worse.

In some ways, you knew Yoongi, but in some ways you were ignorant.

That was how you liked to keep it.

As far as you could tell, Yoongi also played by this rulebook.

You could throw him off sometimes, such as the time you reached up and wrapped your hand around his neck, walking the fingers of your other hand up the white jersey of his loose t-shirt. Curious surprise had flitted over his features, but he hadn’t objected. Instead, he had reached over and experimentally placed his own hand around your neck. You had twisted your body slightly, adjusting the placement of his palm so it matched yours. Fingers on one side, thumb on the other.

You looked into his eyes and clamped down.

Yoongi mirrored you.

There was a sudden gasp in unison and you could see the arousal flood into his eyes.

He was not learned like you, but he had common sense. Followed the same pressure you were doing to him. You were both still fully clothed, the black pleather corset top feeling a little too tight, but there was something better about the discomfort. It amplified the moment. Your hand around his neck, his hand around yours, your impulse leading to his, and your fingers traced over his shirt, fingernails pressing into the thin fabric, erotic patterns cultivating the fruitful tension. Your legs scooting forward between his as you choked each other. Your miniskirt hiking up, but Yoongi was staring at your face, pink lips parted, breathing shallow, dark roast coffee eyes burning, and his tongue flicked the edge of his smirk, enticing you.

You had closed the distance and kissed him, losing yourself in his scent and his tongue.

On this night, you reached down and traced his white knuckles.

Hooking up. That was what it was, but also wasn’t. It felt like an unrefined, crass way to put it, but it was what it was. Impulsive, addictive, intense. It wasn’t planned, at least not by you or Yoongi. The plans were to grab food occasionally, maybe run the same errand if it just so happened that you both needed something from the grocery store on the way, or perhaps the strange coincidence of buying tickets to the same band showcase. Might as well go together, right?

It wasn’t planned.

The first time your fingertips ran down his forearm was an accident, but you saw him shudder. Yoongi had snapped his gaze to you and he immediately knew that you had seen.

There was a warning crossed deep in those dark liquid orbs.

You had touched him again, resting your hand on his wrist, staring into his eyes.

You didn’t push it too far that night. It was just that moment. Neither of you talked about it. Talked about everything else that wasn’t that. Unsophisticated. But the next time it was him standing closer to you, and you had looked up at him. You didn’t shudder, but you didn’t need to. Sparks raced over your skin from the point of clothed contact. A moment, and you didn’t bring it up and neither did he. But after that, it was different.

On this night, as the moonlight washed over the tousled blankets, you reached down and gently relaxed each of those clenched fingers. The tension lessened from his forearm. Yoongi breathed in deep, out of vision, and you could feel his nightmares drift away or, at the very least, not have such a cold grip on him.

You placed your hand over his.

It was cold.

You rubbed his knuckles.

Leaned back against the pillows, which were not ergonomic for optimal rest, but were optimal for movie watching, which was what you had been doing before you both fell asleep. Strange, because the only times Yoongi had ever fallen asleep in your bed was after fucking and that was rare. Only when it was very late and simply ridiculous to drive home to sleep for two hours before driving back to work. Better to simply snooze.

Sometimes the impulse would last all night.

But it would eventually be over.

He would go back to his life and you would go back to yours. That was what it was and that was how you liked to keep it. Human relationships were complicated. Convoluted. It was easy to follow the plot points fabricated by society, easy to get lost in labels and definitions, easy to become frustrated when one doesn’t fit in that narrow coffin-box of the conventional consensus. Harder to thrive in the limbo. It took a certain kind of person to walk that line between heaven and hell.

Your hand on top of Yoongi’s and you closed your eyes.

You had given up a long ago.

Given up on finding that feeling called love.

Lived in the limbo. There was enjoyment in the discomfort, honestly. Maybe that was a result of a lot of things, but it didn’t matter. You had already spent your younger years trying to fit into all these different boxes, thinking you could be as cozy as a cat, and it never worked. You thought you had simply lacked understanding, so you spent your time learning. Still didn’t work. If anything, it was an even emptier feeling, feeling as if you were always playing a role instead of being. In the end, you chose the limbo.

In limbo, you felt the most honest.

And so it was things like this, not quite heaven and not quite hell. Things like Min Yoongi and dark nights of pulling him to you, shedding his jeans and framing his hips with your crowned fingers. Tongue to skin, and you could feel him shudder, his hands circling your head. You drew creative patterns with saliva, up his hips and abdomen, pushing his shirt aside, and glancing up at him.

Yoongi would look down at you with those dark liquid eyes.

It was like drinking in that concentrated, potent energy.

Strong, and your tongue would dance. Your breath hot, washing over his fair skin. Your grip sinking into his body, closer. You could tell Yoongi liked it better when you didn’t use your hands. He liked your caress on his ass as your tongue curled around his hard length. Warm, pulsing, dripping sin in your wake, and you would tilt your head to swallow him deep. No fear. Only rawness. The base of your tongue lowering so the thick head could slip in deeper to the back of your throat. Your tongue sliding out from the confines of your mouth and scooping around his balls, one and then the other, all while pulling in and exhaling from the back of your throat. Pressure. Isolation.

His moan, low and deep, hanging above you like smoke.

Yoongi especially liked it when you became more serious. When you looked up at him cockily and moved your head back and forth, lips parted, jaw slack, the true suction created by the roof of your mouth and your tongue pushing up from below, forcibly rubbing the bottom of the head as you sucked him deep in your throat. Stimulating that thin sensitive skin, precise, gazing at him with fierce intensity and acting as if this was so easy.

Well, it was.

The side of his mouth would always tick up, and Yoongi would always say, “Fuck, you’re so good at sucking dick and you know it.”

Then you would close your lips around his shaft and create that fuckable wet sleeve that would give him that high he had been chasing. The girth filling your mouth and cheeks, your tongue sliding up and down his throbbing length, your hands gripping his hips or even simply resting in your lap to drive the point home further. Relaxed, in contrast to the overwhelming lewd pleasure shooting into the back of your throat, flooding your mouth with the salty, heady taste of cum, swallowing, savoring the thickness and quantity, licking him all over, insistently soft and arcing over his shivering balls, breathing in the scent of sex and familiar cologne.

Sometimes, Yoongi threw you off too.

Once you leaned up against him and stuck your tongue out.

He had licked it before kissing you with a smirk.

Maybe he learned it from you or maybe it was simply his nature revealing himself. Or both. It was hard to know, but such things didn’t matter in the grand scheme of thigs. Better to live in the moment.

This? This between you and Min Yoongi was careful.

You opened your eyes and found Yoongi looking down at your hand over his.

He sensed your movement and his eyes shifted, rising, and now liquid energy was burning into you.

You didn’t move your hand.

His breathing was irregular, but not with the shallow shake of fear.

As far as you could tell, Yoongi also played by a certain rulebook. There were rumors but, more importantly, there was your instinct. There was in the wounded way he spoke about relationships, not just romantic, but all of them. He had friends, but there was a certain depth he avoided with all of them. He didn’t mind their depth of vulnerability and he didn’t avoid his own.

But he never talked to people on his bad days.

In the wash of moonlight, Yoongi breathed out, choppy and rough.

“I missed the last half of the movie.”

You still hadn’t moved your hand and he hadn’t pulled his hand away either.

“It’s a long movie. Maybe we should have gone with John Wick.”

Something curtained over his expression and it wasn’t his long black hair.

“No. You’ve talked about Mr. Nobody before. I wanted to watch it.”

He lifted his body from the dent he had created in the pillows.

“Process it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t fake. Yoongi fucked with his whole body and mind. He didn’t waste his time and it was obvious by the way he seized the opportunities he got. Obvious by the way he was caught up in the moment, trapped in the heat between heated breath, consumed by the thought of your red lipstick smeared over his lips. He knew all the things people said about him. He knew all the things people said about you. But he had cast it all aside to make his own judgement. Society tried to impose dishonest promises of heaven and hell and he cut all the strings that tried to hold him back to slip into this, this between you and Min Yoongi, and there were certain things he didn’t talk about, certain things he didn’t hold on to.

On this night, when he awoke from his nightmares, his hand turned under yours.

Traced his middle finger down your palm, leaving a trail of tingling skin.

His fingers closed around your wrist.

The rush of heat and the sting of lust, rippling, rippling up your arm and across your ribs, burning your blood, and you looked into those coffee eyes, burning liquid energy, people whispering that it was bad for you, people warning that he will stain the bone white of your heart, and your other hand lifted, pushing against the mattress, turning, sliding out of the blankets, interrupting the wash of moonlight over Min Yoongi.

Limbo.

Between heaven and hell.

Yoongi gripped your wrist once it had turned, tightening as you lowered your body over his, your hair tumbling down your shoulders to create shadows, wisps of walls for this limbo, the rules of this rulebook created only by you and Yoongi, his free hand sliding between your bodies, closing in around your jaw and pulling you closer, closer.

“What if I never made the choice to kiss you back then?” Yoongi breathed against your lips, husky and dream-like, still processing the surrealness of the movie hours before.

“Would it be different if I kissed you instead?” you wondered out loud in a whisper.

Maybe, because it might have felt more like playing a role rather than truly being. You wondered and then the wonder washed away when Yoongi kissed you, breathing in your now-familiar scent, deepening the kiss with intense pressure and the way his thumb gently rubbed against your wrist. Contrast. Your blood simmered, aroused by his being.

But this was limbo, not heaven or hell.

You gasped as you broke the kiss and his hand left your wrist, gripping your waist instead.

Your hand on his chin, pushing his head back to expose his neck, and you spied the sly smirk blossoming over Yoongi’s lips, his dark eyes shining, and you dived down, your tongue against his throat.

You felt the vibration of his moan with your lips.

This was not the right answer to your limbo. This was caught up in the moment, burning in the impulse, racing in the intensity, and you could feel it, under your teeth, under your kiss, under your possessive lick up to his ear, breathing hot, his earrings against your lips, and Yoongi’s long fingers were curling into your shirt, lifting it up, up, as your teeth nicked the curve of his ear, kissing that delicate skin as he listened to your whispers in the dark.

“Should I ride you?”

A light scoff, disbelieving. “I can fuck you the way you like.”

He seemed to think you had doubted him in some way. You didn’t fight his renewed energy. Rather than responding, you squirmed against him, pressing your body in all the right places, kissing down his neck, and Yoongi dragged his nails down your back in wanton aggression, sending flares of pain across your body to mix with the fire of pleasure deep within.

This wasn’t planned.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Before you knew it, it had become a compilation of happenings and moments and dreams and then you could feel his nightmares beside you and it had felt so wrong that you couldn’t sleep. Trapped by ghosts lingering in his head, torturing him in his sleep, a feeling you knew all too well, and it had made you reach over and straighten out his fist, taking away the tension in his fingers, resting the warmth of your palm on his cold knuckles.

You had given up on finding that feeling called love.

Not because someone had burned you too deep, but because people had begged you to feel this feeling you just couldn’t seem to feel and it felt so unfair, so unfair to not feel this thing that made people cry in joy, in sadness, in pain. And maybe it was because you had chosen this limbo, this neither heaven nor hell, but you couldn’t leave them like that, so you let them go.

That was you being honest.

You breathed in now, woods and citrus and skin.

Tangled your fingers in his long black hair, adding more darkness to the darkness, and found his lips again. Kisses after dark. Yoongi never said things like I need you. He didn’t even say things like I want you. There was a certain kind of pressure behind words like that. No, instead, there was his kiss. His touch, closing in around your waist, his long fingers fanning over your back, like laces of a corset, pulling your body closer, hardness beneath the blankets and confines of his pants.

In some ways you knew Yoongi and those were his rules.

But it was different than with his friends. Obviously. He didn’t fuck his friends, as far as you knew. It was different because you could feel him in the way he touched you. In the way he yanked your shirt off and threw it to the floor, the way he closed around you with only his arms and hands, touching everything, calm in teasing but intense in tension, rubbing his thumbs over your hard nipples but holding you solidly, in gaze and palms, not letting go.

You opened your eyes.

Liquid orbs, dark roast.

Simmering.

Burning under his gaze and you let Yoongi lift you and push you onto your back, pulling himself out of the blankets, stripping off his clothes and laying claim to your bedroom floor with his discarding.

Everyone else you let go because it had felt so unfair that you didn’t feel.

He climbed over you, condom from your nightstand in his hand, already knowing where it was. Moonlight washing over his skin and shadows over his face. Messy hair from your hands. Scorching hot gaze, and he closed the distance, locking lips possessively, one hand sliding under your back and pulling you up, body to body, your thigh against his erection.

Smearing pre-cum on your skin.

You didn’t believe there was a right answer.

Human relationships were too complicated for that.

But maybe Yoongi was the most special wrong answer.

You kissed him more and he got harder. Breathing in your breath, sucking on your tongue, your arm around his neck, the other hand tucking his hair back behind his ear, flicking his earrings, and the desire vibrated within you, desperate to be fulfilled, but you ignored it for lips and tongue and Yoongi’s delicate moan slipping into your throat.

He rolled the condom down and knocked more pillows to the ground, positioning himself with one hand and spreading out the fingers of the other on the mattress. Your legs on his shoulders.

“Bet you’re tight.”

The corner of your lips ticked upwards. “Find out.”

He pushed in with force, tipping his head back with a groan, and you felt it too, the rising fullness and desire coiling around him, pulsing, your walls pulling him in deeper. Fingers twisting the sheets, tension up your arms, pushing your hips up and squeezing around his girth. The wave, crashing into you, upon feeling his hardness at that depth, and then he bottomed out, gasping as his hand hit the bed, pinning your thighs between your chests.

Staring down at you with those potent eyes.

Saying nothing, but it was written all over Yoongi’s face.

Suddenly you, too, didn’t want to give up any more.

You breathed out with shaking lips.

Yoongi slid out slightly and pushed in with all his force. The sheets beside your head crumpled and so did the ones under your palms. Fingers clenched into fists, and you pushed back, deeper, gasping, building the rhythm. Full. Hard. Intense. The heat of his breath. The tension over his collarbones and chest, his arms locked. The swarming, sublime sensation compacted by the position. His name slipping from your lips, Yoongi, and his eyes flickered to you, dark roast boiling, and your name in his rough, breathless voice, dream-like.

Surreal.

Your hand snapped up and gripped his forearm.

Panting hard, struggling to breathe.

Tightening around his cock and ramming your hips up, igniting the furious pace. Your nails digging into his muscle, but he set his jaw and fucked you through it, the sharp pain only fuel to the fire, caught up in the moment, bated breath, pleasure radiating through you and to him, drowning in lust, heaven and hell bleeding into the limbo, fucking like demons, your other arm pressed into the mattress for leverage. Harder. The taste of his skin lingering on your lips. His dark eyes slashed in shadows of his lashes, layered darkness that made you burn and clench around him, feeling him fill you up again and again, hard and thick and carnal.

You had fucked many times in your bedroom.

Against the wall. On the floor. Against the bed. On the bed. Your nails down his chest, raking lines of pain. Your nails down his back, crossing the lines, X’s in his eyes when he turned his head to gaze into the mirror, the one witness to your brutal red art on his pale skin. His tongue on your chest, curling around your nipples, sucking hard with his fingers stuffed into your dripping, shivering pussy. His palms pushing your head to his crotch, groaning as you took him deep and tight. Fistfuls of his hair in your hands as his hips slapped into your hips, gasping for air, all of it intense.

So many times.

And none of it like this.

Your clenched around him and Yoongi fucked you harder.

Growling in his throat.

Dark brown orbs simmering, a liquid quality about them despite the hardness of his demeanor and the bite behind his sharp words. Simmering, a calm within despite the mounting lust and wet vicious sound of slapping hips, sensual in the rawness of the rhythm.

In the plethora of choice and timelines, Yoongi had chosen to kiss you back then.

In the limbo of in-between, you had kept going, cultivating those happenings and moments and dark nights of Yoongi’s fingers wrapped around your wrists, staring down at you with those dark roast coffee eyes, too caught up in the moment to speak, resorting to kissing you, not just kiss you but not think about anything else but kissing you. That was his honesty. Human relationships were complicated.

Yoongi never talked to people on his bad days.

But, tonight, he found out that you had felt his nightmares and opened his hand so you could give him your warmth.

He tightened his jaw and pressed your thighs between your torso and his chest, the tendons on his neck standing out, using gravity and lust and physical power to fuck you into your mattress, making the pleasure race in your veins, straining your muscles, the searing heat pooling down, down, wrapping around him in a violent squeeze, your walls shuddering and spilling, sloppy and wet and erotic, involuntary flinches seizing your hips, and you threw your head back, vulnerable throat exposed, scalding moan escaping your trembling lips, heavy and sweet viscous juices sticking to his crotch and thighs.

You let them all go, but Yoongi did not let you go.

You felt his hips buck and the low groan tear out from his lungs, his cock twitching inside you, filling the condom, pressing into you as deep as possible to feel the quiver of your inner walls pulsating around him, and you tightened even more, making him hiss and snarl in warning.

The arm you weren’t gripping moved up and knocked your leg aside.

Yoongi wrapped his hand around your neck and choked you as he orgasmed inside you, savoring the ripples of the aftershocks from your high. Immediate. Forcing you to a bloodless lightheadedness, surging pleasure that electrified, shuddering and clenching around his jerking length, thrown into another high, not as strong but just as euphoric, your moan thin and pinched by his hold.

Yoongi tipped his head back and moaned with you, his black hair falling back, his striking face illuminated by moonlight.

His grip lessening a little and the rush of oxygen make your hips jolt and your pussy convulse, again, tingling sparks racing in your veins and sore muscles. Your hand slipped from his forearm, your body ransacked by narrow inhales of stinging air.

His head arced back, leaning down, down, his hand slipping from your neck, his fingers spreading over your chest. Wisps of black strands brushing against your hot cheeks, and Yoongi kissed you like he was thinking of nothing else.

Impulse.

He breathed in, your scent and sex, deepening the kiss with pressure.

When Yoongi broke the kiss, you opened your eyes to dark liquid orbs, leaving you airless and mute.

“You... Your heart is beating so fast…”

Rough pants, his solid palm to carnal drumbeat.

You stared up at him.

I don’t want to give up any more.

Half-smirk.

“Maybe I like you,” you exhaled with a shudder.

He smiled slyly too.

“Hope so.”

The way he held your face after.

You were looking in the mirror after cleaning up. Wondering what you had done, saying something like that. Not dishonest, but surely complicating this human relationship. Did you mean it or was it all because you were too caught up in the moment? Not a lie and yet…

A shadow came up behind you.

Pale hands sliding over your shoulders, long fingers splayed over your neck, and then they rested, like petals of a lotus flower, framing your jaw and lips. Cool skin, pink knuckles, the scent of familiar woody cologne and sex. Bodies in shadow backlit by the wash of moonlight. Black hair against your ear. Dark roast coffee orbs gazing at your reflection. No, the reflection of your eyes. You understood. You could see it too. Your eyes were guarded.

Barbed wire fence in your stare.

Yoongi lifted his head, flushed pink lips against your ear.

There were a lot of things he could have said to turn this into a drama.

Instead, he just closed his eyes and kissed the curve of your ear.

He pulled you back into the bedroom.

You stopped him, wrapping your fingers around his forearm, and you felt his body shudder against you. A ripple. Tangible, distinct, but you turned your head away from his, not willing to be caught by those liquid eyes. He didn’t have a very strong hold on you. You could break away.

You leaned back against him.

“It seemed like… Seemed like you weren’t having good dreams,” you said to the ceiling.

You held on tight, tangling your pinky in the thin silver chain on his wrist.

For a moment, Yoongi said nothing at all.

Then.

“It’s why I prefer to snooze over sleeping over. You can’t control things like that,” he muttered, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I’ve tried.”

“That’s why you work so much.”

“Well, I would like to make money to follow you to those cool places you want to go.”

“I don’t really like traveling.”

A light push away.

He pulled back.

“I thought so too,” he confessed quietly.

Your other hand rested on his bare hip. You were still staring at the ceiling and holding his forearm as his fingers fanned out over your neck and jaw. Soft, petal-like touches, his palms caressing your collarbones, and you were sure that Yoongi hadn’t intended to fall asleep. Honestly, you thought you would hate this conversation about this feeling you couldn’t feel. Hate it because how unfair it was that people could feel this feeling so truly and genuinely, heaven at their fingertips, and all you had was this honest limbo.

You dug your nails into his hip.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” you whispered.

The hands around your neck tightened.

“It always hurts. That’s how you know you’re alive,” Yoongi murmured into your ear.

Your hand fell from his arm.

Flexed the muscles in your neck, and his grip tightened as your fingers trailed back and down, down, feeling his shivers caused by your nails raking over his ass and your fingertips grazing his skin. It hurt. Of course, it hurt, the thinning of blood and tightness all over. It hurt and still you forced your hand between your bodies, moving the hardness that had been pressing against your ass, and of course it hurt but it also made you feel alive.

“Careful,” he meant to hiss but it came out in a half-gasp when your hand encased him.

Grasped him tight and slid up and down the length, taut and velvety but too dry, and Yoongi jerked behind you, one hand leaving your neck.

“Fuck, stop, wait–”

It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.

Yoongi grabbed your wrist and pulled you off him. Brought your palm to his hot mouth.

He licked your hand, slathering it with his saliva.

You sucked in a breath, feeling his tongue on the lines of sensitive skin, across and all over, drenching, flexible warm muscle painting messy patterns. Memories of that tongue rippled through you – on your neck, on your breasts, on your pussy – but then it stopped when he pushed your hand back down, and you wrapped your slippery grip around his hard cock once more, hearing his groan reverberate in your ear.

You wasted no precious breath nor time.

His hand returned to around your neck.

Your head tipped back, resting against his temple, staring at the ceiling, his hands choking you as you jacked him off, rising heat dancing across your skin and in your veins even without looking into those liquid eyes, and there was nothing else you wanted to think about, just the precise pressure and constant wet slapping sound melding with Yoongi’s vulnerable, contained moans, the sound perfectly audible due to your closeness, and you felt your lips tremble, your thin exhale like hot smoke drifting to the ceiling.

You closed your eyes and you could feel him.

Taut and tense and wanton pleasure burning, searing you and searing him, locking his hips to be at the mercy of your ferocious pace, trusting your instinct as you trusted his hands around your neck. Trickles of oxygen when his grip lessened with every wave of heightened bliss when the pocket of your forefinger and thumb rubbed against the swollen head. Pressing against you, your other hand still gripping his hip, harder, as if he was asking for the bruises. Chosen marks to turn into chosen scars. Your name in his husky, hushed voice, trailing off and losing his thought, not that it mattered because you could feel his body and could tell when he wanted more, faster, tighter, his cock twitching, hot and hard, twisting his body towards you more, his lips in your hair.

Hot breath suspended in overwhelming lust.

“Don’t stop,” he growled lowly, words only for you.

You didn’t.

He clenched his jaw with a grinding of teeth and shoved his hips into your ass. Hot and thick, streaming cum onto the soft curve, down your hip and trickling down. Flinch and sharp jerk, more painting in a smear, his drawn-out moan at the crown of your head, all strength lost from his hands and simply adorning your jaw with his hands, pressing his thumb to your lip to open your mouth, all to feel the warmth of your gasping exhale. Blood shot up to your brain and then you were thrown into that starry lightheaded daze, clutching his half-hard cock still leaking onto your hip.

You couldn’t see anything.

Only felt Yoongi surrounding you, his rough fingertips sliding up to your ear and temple.

Your lips parted.

Shaking.

“L… Lick it… off…”

Your voice on the cusp of fallen autumn leaves, fragile and crumbling.

Heavy.

Inhale.

Exhale right into your hair.

Hands gliding from your neck.

Trembling lips down your shoulder blade. Ghosts of kisses dotting your spine. Boiling blood in your veins, sparks all over from his trailing fingertips, and Yoongi got on his knees next to you. You heard them hit the hardwood. You didn’t move, eyes closed, suspended and entranced by anticipation, and then you felt the tip of his tongue draw an arc on your hip.

You opened your eyes as he drew another arc against your skin.

Warm breath and then the flat of his tongue. Uncontrollable quiver and you gasped softly, feeling and hearing him lick across your skin. Sucking up the cooling cum and replacing it with hot clinging saliva, an addictive prickling sensation racing over your ass and back. Your thigh in his hands, those deft fingers spread out to encircle it in his grasp, holding you still.

You looked down.

Yoongi looked up at you, cocking an eyebrow as he licked his own orgasm off your ass.

Black strands over his forehead and you reached up to brush them away, the tip of your tongue grazing your lower lip, caught by those dark coffee eyes and drinking in that potent feeling, admiring the way the moonlight lit up his fair cheekbones. Held breath. He didn’t look away. Burned the memory into your mind. Up, his kisses hovering over your side and ribs, up, and then you were in Min Yoongi’s shadow, his face tilted down to admire you.

You raised your hand.

He gently covered it with his, bringing it to his chest.

Closer and you breathed in his thin gasp, tasting the strong traces of his orgasm.

“Your heart is… beating so fast…” you mumbled to his shaking lips.

Those liquid eyes.

He closed the distance and kissed you.

Some choices were made by chance, such as falling asleep in the middle of Mr. Nobody. Millions of outcomes from both doing something and doing nothing. Your fingers spread out over his back, adorning his frame with your touch, his strong salty taste slipping onto your tangled tongues, and your eyes closed, maybe afraid to look into those liquid orbs that everyone claimed had a hardness in them, but on this night you knew better.

You broke the kiss.

Yoongi’s hand was twisted into your hair, pulling your head back, trailing swollen lips against your throat.

Gentle kisses to amplify the ache.

“Let’s not fall asleep,” you sighed, digging your nails into his shoulders.

His hand rose and he placed it over one of yours, rubbing your white knuckles. Not pulling your hand away. Rather, pressing it closer, weighted, as if he wanted your hold to stay there.

Yoongi’s lips moved against your skin.

You held onto him firmly, not letting go.

He didn’t make any sound.

You held onto him and then pulled him to the bed, not knowing what he said but knowing all the same, for these rules in this limbo were made by you and Min Yoongi, heaven and hell bleeding into each other to create something new. It took a certain kind of person to walk this thin line. On this night of moonlight washing over tangled bodies, Yoongi made it clear that he was not going to let you walk it alone and he didn’t want to give up any more.

And you.

You, too, didn’t want to give up any more.

--

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