I don’t know if any of the followers I have here are among the followers that I had that suggested a haikyuu au to me back in the day. BUT OH BOY. four years later I finally watched it, and I mean, is anyone surprised that my trash ass has ended up fucking around with haikyuu fics? The writing comeback is still a process, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go as hard as I did back in my old cyphertrip days, but I am trying to write every so often over on @fukurokoma so if haikyuu is your thing and you’re at all interested in my pottering, that’s where I am mostly.
Unfortunately I have no answer for you. I stopped working on miss dial before the last chapter of it was posted though Katherine credited me for the small margin of editing I had done all the same. As far as I can tell it’s been awhile since she updated her blog and her and I haven’t been in touch since I think early last year so it would be difficult for me to hazard a guess. What I will say is you never know when someone is going to be motivated to make a comeback so, you never know?
pairing: yoongixreader
genre: drabble, smut
word count: 693
warnings: sacreligious narrative, oral sex
disclaimer: aforementioned sacreligious narrative is merely a tool of the narrative, the comments made in this piece of fiction are not at all intended to belittle or insult anyone with religious inclinations at all and are a reflection of the character’s feelings, please read with caution and consideration for the above.
Yoongi spends a lot of time on his knees these days.
He is not a praying man, does not take the time out of his merciless inclinations and ruthless business ethic to subscribe to something so inherently fantastical it cannot be believed. He believes that on the matter of religion he has just as much time and faith in God as he imagines God would have in him – it’s not a lot.
The altar at which he worships is the clearance of space afforded between your knees, one that allows him to devoutly bow his head, reverently trace his fingertips along the back of your thighs. He maps skin covered in gossamer, translucent velvet beneath his hands with a lace trim, holsters that lure his gaze lewdly to the shadows cast by your skirt.
He cannot see what lays beneath though he knows, helped you dress this morning while disparaging the intricate lingerie you had chosen.
(“Fucking tease.”
The pout of his lips, sulky and childlike, shifts at the flutter of your hand over his soft cock, caving to a gasp, fingers grasping through the material of his trousers, trapping his breath in the back of his throat.
Your smile is unholy, sin, wrapping lithely around your lips as you lean in closely.
Patience, Dahlia.)
And to his favor Yoongi has not done anything inherently evil (this week) though penance is paid with the flat of his tongue preemptively, your legs spread with careful hands and slow strokes condemning you to fall into the depths of his depravity while he incites the kind of slow burning pleasure that coils your white knuckled fingers into the strands of his hair.
He does not say a word from the moment he enters your office though he savors every breathless gasp and whimper that emanates from the depths of your lungs. This is his atonement, his confessional. This is how he chooses to communicate, and in return every noise you offer in response is a hail mary, a bright light hallelujah that eases the wracked conscience of his soul, cleanses him until he, too, might feel a shred of something pure.
It’s a feeble concept, maybe, but it’s one that Yoongi subscribes to all the same.
He lets his desire, his wicked tongue, teeth, dull your divinity with lilacs and blossoms, teasing debauchery that lingers upon your skin in fervent hymns. His mouth belongs to the devil himself, torturous and burning, with hands that now are too stained not to leave their mark. The tarnish of his touch is a sacred pleasure, a secret you keep for yourself.
He marks you in places only the all-seeing could see for he is not a man of faith, thus regaling every sordidly indulgent persuasion of your collective to remain a secret for only the two of you, a simple pleasure that implores repeat, a daily mantra. This one physical act that he is so unreservedly fond of is his verse of devotion, a play at faith with all the opulent trappings of being divinely true. For Yoongi can feel you against his tongue, taste you even after, and it is as close to heaven as he ever need be.
There is peace to be found in the cradle of your hips, a quietness that enters his mind when your body quivers and you sigh, a light airy sound that has him sliding two fingers past your entrance, curling them upwards until you are biting your lips. Flushed and with your eyes squeezed tightly shut, your brow furrowed, you murmur his name senselessly, over and over like a prayer, a plea, a please, please, please that slips in breathless turns from your lips uninhibitedly.
You fall apart with his name on the very tip of your tongue, silent but for the soft gasps that draw past your teeth, team with soft eyes and hands that gently fit to his cheeks when Yoongi straightens his spine. You are an angel, mercy, perhaps, and you are kissing him, absolving him of his sins with your humble mouth, your innocent hands.
She mused that maybe he was mean, and she had encountered mean boys before. They played it cool and came off aloof and mysterious but in her experience they seemed to care much more than most, and she was fairly well suited to them, prizing them open with a trustworthy look in her eyes and a smile full of her own mysteries.
